She had the face of gypsum
against a palette of primary colour.
She patterned his space and when she smiled
she was tessera in the sun.
In the fading light she was a Caravaggio masterpiece
with all the elements of chiaroscuro.
Colonnades of hair split into a triptych,
a tracery of lace at her throat.
He painted her from all angles to saturation point.
At night he kept her in an amphora for safe keeping.