#6, 1989 "...surrounded by choral rings..."
10.
Telephone poles march
down the road, into the distance.
Grackles, flash up from feeding.
Desiring already, again
to put it all together,
some order
to that moment, seen.
A clear
moment
in the flower,
here!
a gross being alive
a thrown wave,
green and warm--
22.
Painting this still life,
the shells on the beach
the sunflowers against the sky
a rope weaving circles to bind
a candle as time, a knife
slicing the space through--
a bucket like the universe’s vessel
a little boy peeing in bronze--
the vase, friezes all of this
in the failing sun.
Clouds passing overhead
the narrow islands weather,
the difference between
bay and ocean mind,
bells ring on swells.
Everything is broken,
a man in black turns--
washing my brushes, “I’m done.”
the reeds
blaze red, in silhouette.
I found as I painted a still life that summer, that each day the lily died as another bloomed each day. This direct experience of cycle lead me from the inner black and white to a door opened onto the outer world once again. I became interested in that transition or juxtaposition.
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