Time has stopped here, just as madame 
is paused, still rearranging oranges and lemons 
in her compote bowl.  Only a faint pencil
line demarks the border between table
and wall; everything the same fabric:
red of aged bricks scrolled with blue arabesques
and vases of flowers and fruits.  Terra cotta 
rolled from his brush with the heat of a wild beast, 
spilled from wall to table to floor.
The room vibrates with blood.
Outside the window frame, there’s a green
meadow dancing with marguerites
and flowering trees.  While inside the red
room, it is still.  The table is set, the clock
has wound down.  Nothing moves
or breaks the spell, except this hot liquid,
arterial spill.