I think this is an evening when I should be studying
the anatomy & the dignity of trees, even as they stand alone, in shadow
or in light, as if waiting – or not waiting – for a train,
their sequins glittering. Yes, I need to study the trees, tonight…
Right now; right here.
I tell you this, you say
“you need to start painting again, surround yourself with oils
& turpentine.” But the dirty dishes, I say, the stucco walls
covered with crayon cobwebs that need paint, & yes, the nude
model I lack: especially the walls between myself
& the color red, myself & brushstroke, myself & the abyss
of images from my past & present & future
lapsings of time. But clench a rose between your teeth, I will begin.
I will find, as I keep finding things I thought
lost, as one stumbles upon the truth through error, if one
believes there is a truth; stumbling, I am, through ridged
mountains of old laundry, discarded drafts of poems, drafts
of loves lost & found & lost again, light glancing off skins
of pears hung in the riverside grove – hey, is that you
there, again, eyes like heads of nails?
—
