In nude you are as bare as one of your hands
smooth, earthly, small, round, transparent
with lines of moon and paths of an apple,
in nude you’re slender like a naked stem of wheat.
In nude you look blue like the Cuban night
with stars and vines in your hair,
in nude you are whole and yellow
like summer in a church of gold.
In nude you look tiny like one of your finger nails
curvy, subtle, rose-colored like the rising dawn
and you move back to the world’s underground.
As if in a large tunnel of robes and chores:
your clarity, dressed, blinds and drops its leaves
and other times becomes a naked hand again.