after John Schuyler
Under the red streak,
we decide is an iron sea ledge,
is a childish blue scarf, a boy’s eyes
fluttering like drums.
In this painting
I am impaired.
Cannot hear, cannot swim,
cannot swallow the ocean’s
diagonal history
or cough up its living reef.
I smell white
am white as a baseline
acrylic stretched over
untreated linen.
Someone is dying
in the room where you imagined
you were being born.
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.
|
|