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.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment