for D.M.

Just as Jupiter spirited the girl to Crete,
this canvas was conveyed over the sea
and must surf its contradictions or drown.
(It looks like Europa, her pose indiscreet,
should tumble onto us pretty heavily;
nothing ruffles the bull’s flower crown.)

My memories of being young here
surface as a kind of automatism: lo,
my feet take over. Streets haven’t moved,
buildings have stayed anchored. I hear,
as a couple kneels, pointing out a window
to their child: “That’s where we lived.”