Updated: Aug 16, 2021
Dry lightning sizzles the night.
Your umbrella fences toward
a foe's laminated heart. Touché
touches no one dancing in the rain.
My books spread across the hardwood
floor. Downpours push through the open
window, clouds gather above my desk.
I throw my nth draft against the wall to watch
it stick. Adhesion fades, words slither down
the drain. Red edits correct themselves. Revise,
rewrite, rewind. With time, we practice
French verbs under the portico. Conjugations
copulate, clipped accent marks mate in the air.
We sip shadows, then sun in Provençal markets.
Antique fountain pens stir indigo ink, wide margins
diet until slim, slip into new robes. White is so passé,
but ushers in the new black. I wear weather like a cloak.
It wraps around my knees, massages my neck.
O how the body knows it own, as we know ours.
Selves contain infinity, space-time, the Absolute, night.
Matter and spirit hunker down on the sideline: stuck inside
of Mobile with the Memphis blues again. We empty
cartridges of colors into the rusty well. Raise the bucket
to irrigate fleurs du mal, which sound almost human
as they start their day. Je vais, vous allez, nous
allons. Come, come, now, Baudelaire. Paint it black.
No more perfect opportunity arises than this opening
for those who stand and brush. No. 5, at four thousand
euros, shows that crime can pay: Keep one eye
on the easel, one hand in a pocket not your own. Bone
up on your idioms. The Idiot practices more devotion
to humanity than the grandest canvas. Night, too, reeks of black.