After Sam Robbins’ sketch book
End of summer:
Cavort, he said. I fling my arms
wide to the dazzling sky
conscious of sun on my skin
and tiny lines from my bra and pants
which I hope he will not draw.
Cavort, I instructed, as soon as she was stripped.
An absurd word, to make her laugh, and she did,
and she swung her beautiful, bulky, torso with zest,
a Diana on the upland dune.
Cavort, the artist has neatly scribbled
on his sketches of an end-of-summer day,
and I wonder why this captioned finality,
and whether, afterwards she turned
slowly towards him, still naked.