Standing naked, Oscar, baby, is all she ever has to say,
for he knows the beauty of the curve, that the staircase,
and the roof, and a woman’s breasts
are most alluring when they lead him away from what he wants the most, saying
look at my form: touch and remember me. He is slowly learning
what she already knows: a thing is changed simply through the act of being seen.
And with each sweep his hands make across her neck and arms and nipples,
he is drawing the plans for his next great museum
where the sunlight reflecting off its windows blinds her eyes
and all she hears through the courtyard is the breeze
blowing from Brasilia to the beaches of Rio
where even her name is wet with the sea.