Thanks - yes,
this is a species of what I’ve done here,
although to see it parsed out in the New York Times is queer:
learning there are rulebooks for interior décor
about affixing tricks to flick one’s sight from ceiling to the floor.
It all was so organic when I took
my first electric look
at where I would be living –
irrepressible immediacy! – visions giving
me their sure decisions about where
to put the art upon the walls – yes, there –
and there above it and below:
making up an intimate tableau
as personal and quiet as my mother
was in conjuring that watercolor, and the other
watercolor hoping to abut the loopy disposition
next to it exalting the addition
of two yellow purple crimson creatures
underneath, both screwing up their features
at my mother’s careful bays above.
We all have our ways, my love,
that must attend and be attended to
begetting the excruciating crucially askew
so that my boop-a-doo productions
can harrumph at the serene seductions
of my mother’s seas and skies
as wide as all the eyes
of my menagerie, befuddled
in their frames, puddled
in their reservoirs of hues.
So goes the news
of how my mother’s pictures
blithely overcame their strictures
in the way of ushering the best of her and me
and my menagerie into our likely final destiny.
When I die, she will too, again.
Our pictures probably will tell us when.