Wednesday, January 23


I don't like cities
concrete fountains and spurs
instead of trees
instead of the horizon
or the shore.

I wonder if we all begin
by drawing ourselves against
a white background. No sketch
of my face has context,
in no painting I have made

with my hands
does a background exist. Not
even arabesques,
not a grid or a line, although
sometimes a shadow
makes its way below.

I want to be seen in candlelight
or on the sand. A view
of the porch, where fireflies gather
in the green; or the mist reaches
subtle hands to touch your face.

I am beginning to refute the blank--
I am tenacious, can hold on for ages and empires,
but I can also let go.