The Artist had a vivid dream of dumbbells
getting claustrophobic in a crate.
He awoke to draw them, stumbled naked
out to pencil, paper, table – as if
mandated to finish it before it was too late.
When he’d got into bed the night before,
his life was rife with yellow, blue and red –
all wed to pretty promises of paradigms
of pilgrimage through peonies and clover.
The honeymoon was over.