I will start again for the second time. My lost painter was laughing at himself with me today and it reminded me of something I’d written about him a half decade ago. Nothing delicate and sweet. Nothing good, but I spent a moment to dig it out of the book. “My arrow sang as it hit your breast and now we are smiling” I feel I made a wish somewhere, maybe I left it on a shelf to collect dust, and now it’s come back to kiss me.
I paint an audible picture
you bed sorrow
me, blind The canvas watching
while we slept
You could have made your move
but didn’t
me, blind Unseeing of ‘more’
Who was the victim?
The sheets I imagine you
on now
are white