A Painting Does Not Lead the Eye Anywhere, the Point Is We Stop There
A man running from fire-fighters turns and we see
half of his face is bloody. The noon air, a cold compress.
To break in rain as one breaks in a pair of boots.
Rain in my sleeve’s fold, and the grey coffee of a diner
somewhere my grandfather sat. I pull the curtains.
Autobiography: my father taught me to take apart
a doorknob, the circular plate that comes down when
you try to pick it is called the curtain. Statue’s smile worn away.
I have forgotten if I am pulling the curtains open or closed.
The first English use of curtains was to enclose a bed.
I am making you breakfast. We could leave this apartment
and be in any city. The newspapers take so long to read here.
One newspaper on the steps for every morning since,
as one who finds the one thing not destroyed in the storm
as a sign. The director gives the actress the motivation
you are beautiful. To gauge: where would you lie down today?
Assuming you once would have lain down anywhere.
To end in an instant of happiness. To end after an instant
of happiness. Bass drum. Lemonade. Quiet trilling creek.
The nail in the wall falls, not the photo. Our only
pictures, of cave drawings. In the town we left, trees grew
as though not planted. You ran a hand down a branch to render:
a blossom of leaves. Ran your hand down a wrist to receive:
blossom of hands. The town we left was also called
Eureka.
