ART

Take thick gobs of paint,
rich and streaming,
a’swirl in hot tongues
of burnished oranges
and browns,
and find a swerve
mere to the eye
where curve and circle
rankle across
long fields of vision
and clear headings
of silence…

And then all shall go down
into hues of autumn
where serrated leaves
mosey on water.

We the artists,
your riders on air,
are pushed and pulled
further along
by curbside waves
where sit and wait
the masculine streets,
difficult,
murky and dank
as old stone cities
and strong white highways
of cold wedded
memory.