After the water, the
clouds. After clouds
the telephone. Then
the hope that
someone will hear it
ring. After the answer
the question. Who
picked the flowers?
an on-going series of poems inspired by the great Belgian painter
In the surrounding
countryside
trees define
the type of horse
that might be found
there. The contours
suggest a woman’s
body; but with a
different angularity
some have seen
it as an empty
bowl of fruit. A figure
loses its memory
along with its outline.
Words wilt in the
winter heat. There
are no dinosaurs.
The distances de-
fined. & by default
the spaces in
between. Balanced
relationships. Without
which the fingers
would not harmonize.
Some things taught,
something less
learnt. Practice makes.
Not perfect but im-
parts some form
to it. A semblance
of. In part. Way there.
Waiting for. What
is brought to it.
Outside the span.
Just as the
seasons & the sun
& the position of
the other
stars start
growth in plants
& birds to
fly to imprinted
destinations
so, too, do
anniversaries of
certain incidents
in the life
of Giorgio de Chirico
cause bells
to fall silent &
fall to earth.
Antiquities weep
blood. In the
Byzantine piazzas
of the labyrinth
pigeons pause
& whisper
Hebdomeros.
Levity & lemonade
for dinner. What changed
your mind? No matter.
I went along with your
desire to dance. Pushed
the stairway into a corner
of the room to give
us more of it. You
moved around me. I
kept time by ringing out
the rhythm on the bell
balanced above my finger.
Your first steps reiterated
your name. What else
they wrote there
I am not allowed to tell.