Hair still Titian,
but Botticelli's grip has loosened —
not now Rubenesque,
and probably never;
Ingres approaches,
but Courbet might capture me.
Could I be surreal?
It seems almost likely —
bells in my ears
and fortresses under;
cones have been set on my eyes.
My spring is gone
and summer's upon me,
rude in its ripening.
I'm espaliered, strung wide and tied,
pinioned, and thus can I fly.