No-one looks at my arms any more

And says roll up those sleeves, I must

Use my tongue to follow one thing

To another and would you show me your


What-have-you.  This is good however

Long it’s been because maybe I was

Once too willing to say, whatever,

Sure, if you think so. Which between us


Generated mostly boredom &c

And so has almost never been the best

Answer, though it’s also brought I confess

A few (not enough, in balance) interesting


If not always entirely satisfying

Moments in the short run.




Toward Winter


Stop solving.  The perfect

Lives somewhere else.  Here


Fall eats its way across the foothills,

Not cold yet, burning


The way the world tells me

Time is coming, red and cold


And fierce.  On the other side,

The opposite.  Shadows shrinking


And a sky so beautiful

I can’t look it in the eye.




History of Painting, Part X


He’s about to become

All about light.  Limning

And glittering in its way.  Not


The subject, the self,

Bearded in its dignity,

But the sun setting


The trees on fire behind him

So, like us, he’s lost in woods

He envisions.  Are they


Inside him?  Paint

Itself reflecting.  What

Do we choose to see?


Put down shadow,

Dapple, the world we keep

Thinking we can know.