In the Schiele drawing, black stockings and a red line between the legs. The book is on the floor, the breadknife beside it— Schiele’s shirt is large and white, formless, hymnal and without relation to the torso that he must have drawn first. —Raspberries for the bread, raspberries also the nipples and the pout, all making the red line look like preserves. When the bread comes out, it goes on the floor after the oven, trading heat for light— in the bedroom, the bra eats the bedlight, leaves circles that are negatives of lace, the rings and serrations stop being various; the light in my lips recalls fibrous raspberries. I am afraid that if I don’t eat vegetables I will plumpen and rot. Tonight in the bedroom, with oil on my back, I am strange and luminous as bronze basil in rainwater; the rosemary plant at the window.