Issue 14
At the Met

This painter thrives on his own pressure.
Glares at all and sundry,
avid of what’s really here.
Lets us look over his shoulder
where all walk in — a public space
for what’s private like sex and fear.
This one: a woman, eyelids curve in sleep.
Young lovely roundnesses, complete.
She’s happy to be separate and alone.
He’s taken in all sides of her,
spreads them in full view —
can’t look enough to sate his will to know.
Paints her onto grass green and crude ?
white blatant daisies, too big,
expletives of earth that will not wait.
She’s gone absent from her body
that was born to continue.
Asleep, she dreams strangely to be herself….
Back home, on my work-table:
tulips I bought today cram a jug, living red.
Driven by water, lush tubes spread,
expressed by sexual flood.