EVENING

 

Black bird

from green leaves

 

Wires

catching light             

 

Crossings

Flight

 

 

CANVAS

 

There is no blue without yellow 

and without orange. 

– Vincent Van Gogh

 

a room filled with brush strokes 

stars candles and lanterns

                orbs of light

 

spirals cypresses and arches

frames within frames pool tables

and potato eaters sowers and

self-portraits beds and chairs

cornfields and crows watery

reflections and irises so many

shades of blue yellow and orange

dissolve into and out of each other

 

I move masked 

and at distance 

among other beings and phones

           circles of safety on the floor 

I marvel at and immerse in

the work of Van Gogh…

 

another man elsewhere 

paints concrete

             the largest prayer to the planet 

the book of records records

on a canvas over earth

 

GEARS

 

geometry

whispers

in unbroken glass

 

a sound bath

of sacred syllables

encircles

 

iguana’s tail—

a trail of data

scaling our eyes

 

aerial openings

sing of intelligence

deities

 

the invisible

poetry bridging

corners

 

       KING OF WIRE

           for Alexander Calder
 
                    There is so much       space
                                    to play with
 
                           So much
                                shadow and light
 
                                      Sculpting
                 of voids
                    and volumes
                       
                               Curatings
                           of gravity and grace

                   among so many
           self-reflections
                                            
                 wires trembling            inside a mind
                 like acrobats         in motion      

                                  under a Barnum
                                  & Bailey
 
                                             Big Top

 

 

 

RHODODENDRONS

for Frida

 

You took them

from his thick hands–

 

the flowers he picked

from the garden.

 

One by one you made

a bouquet of them

 

in your braided,

raven hair, painted 

 

yourself with color

again. Then

 

leaned against the coral 

and blue-turquoise canvas

 

of your house and took

his hand, now free,

 

kissed it, pressed it

against your cheek.

 

A stolen moment

between artists.

 

The voyeurs in us blushed

 under your gaze,

 

under the museum lighting,

under our masks.

 

We saw ourselves

in you.