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A Gift to the Viewer
Oh, quivery river, you so smeared
Upon a cold canvas of poorly painted sun
In first blush of summer, then a duller time,
Then the bottoms of peaches, of a pear, of cream—
Or are you merely shadows in bold dissolve—
A monstrous color falls
Alongside her where she was
In expensive glasses so dark and posing
Questions: Have you written impressionistically of a river?
Have you figured a while on the truth?
Have you thought of investing in a pair of glasses?
The sun’s so hard on one’s expressionistic tendencies!
How the afternoon light descends upon the stampede of strokes
And through the transparency of the plastic bag
How the jar of mineral spirits contains a faint intimation of the sun—
To make like philosophical delay or a deeper understanding, a turn
Of promise dependent, vermilion nudes
In a primitive paradise. Doubt, the numbing
And unresponsive formlessness, redoubtable realism
Run amok becoming the form and the dark
Pigment of summer, pink-boned femme fatale
Peering into her face asleep: like
A frog’s brain in a jar, some thing
Marvelous yet potentially explosive, e.g., “What have you
Been dreaming (of), my love?” I don’t know
When or where or how this might happen, but this was
My independent film, my love, my love,
I, I, I, who have not caught your essence all afternoon.
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