(an oldie but a goodie…..)
At the Poplars of Saint Remy you touch the
back of my waist while making a joke about
fire and a certain vegetable–and at the same
time, can’t take your eyes off the Van Gough
you have never seen; your hand in its place.
We are becoming part of these paintings,
seeing through the window panes of Monet’s
The Red Kerchief–the emptiness and fullness
all in one weighted breath. Viewing colors
we didn’t know existed before we felt them,
named them, spoke them.
The heavy beauty of your fingers on my
naked neck forebode like La Vie–a dark
weighted bluegrey. A mouth-gaping knowing;
even in not knowing. One finger held out in pause–
the holding in wait for an end. The panic in her eyes;
in my eyes.
I want to capture you; like Matise or Margritte in
brush strokes on a textured canvas; brilliant,
deliberate, mine. I will give you colors even Picasso
couldn’t name, so that with only a glance, passersby
will feel my loyalty, devotion, passion;
There is no gallery that could hold, contain, frame
the way your eyes sketch a picture in my hand.
But someday, when even the smallest child has noticed
the nature, the way it feels under the blueprints of his
fingers; i will hang it on the largest, whitest wall,
where never has been found a greater artifice.