Pentimento

                               (for Christine Lynne)

Going to the bar was the mistake

Christine has to live with the next day,

not just the lost time but

her perspective out of whack,

ladling on the paint by the bucketful

all in aid of lightness but producing

just the opposite. The reeds she wants

so badly to dance grow heavy-thighed,

lead-footed, start to sink

into the marsh, decaying like Lindner's

rotted trunks rather than breathing,

the way she can feel them. The more

she pushes the paint in one direction,

the more it pushes back in the other

until finally the canvas itself seems

to be sinking under its own weight. What

to do? At dinner, she growls, beats

her chest, grumbles about the bar, the poolgame,

the way the jukebox blared its way

into her dreams, the headache that extended

all the way through her arms

to her fingers, the brushes, the points

of light gone out of control. The woman

in the next studio sticks her head

around the partition, there's a smear

of green paint on her nose gives her

a comical look, as if nothing it sniffs at

could ever smell too bad. "Had a bad day,

eh?" she says cheerfully. Yes, Christine

agrees, a bad day, but paint has a way

of finding its own balance, of springing

back under weight the way reeds bent down

resume their posture, their roots

blindly seeking water, shoots rising

toward sun, and always, despite

the weather, finding the dance.

            Portrait of the artist doing laundry

                               (for Betsy Rosenwald)

At the laundromat, Betsy moves

Chris’s load to the dryer and sets in

folding her own while her mind

wanders, registering the pattern

of the steam pipes, the texture

of the stippled walls. The faded colours

of her undies, their patterns

and shapes, continue to amaze

her, giving as much pleasure now

as when they were bright. She thinks

about the sticks she gathered in the woods

this morning, the heft of them, the feel

of the rough bark in her palm, the smooth

pale pith beneath, tender as the flesh

of her own thigh. She considers

the structure she will make

of them, the way the pieces

will come together. In her hands

the collar of her flannel shirt

is still warm, nubbed, like the skin

of a lover in the cave of their bed. She

folds and refolds the shirt, just so.

            The photographer of possibilities

A man with a camera around his neck

and a tripod on his shoulder is traipsing

through the woods in front of my window.

I don’t know him but I recognize the look

on his face. He stops to consider

the stump of a tree sacrificed in a storm

long ago, the planes and angles

of its rupture, the lichen and moss

which has found shelter and comfort

in its healed wound. He hesitates

and it’s easy to read the possibilities

he weighs, the aperatures and directions,

the balance of shadow and light. Then

he moves on, the shrug of rejection

passing over his face too quickly

for me to read it. He passes out of my line

of vision, leaving me to consider

the stump, the path not taken.

            Painting Fairy Island

At 5 each day the rowboats

return from Fairy Island

filled with painters clutching

wet canvasses of birch and lichen,

filtering light, rotting leaves. The sun

in their eyes makes them squint

and later they’ll turn back to watch

it set and their eyes will fill

with tears, that beauty

just beyond their reach.

 
            The Northern Lights disappoint

After two weeks keeping us

in the dark, the northern lights

arrive on the next to last night,

showing off like any kid, doing

backflips across the sky, a lot

of noise but not so much heat.

We keep peering up, hoping to see

god’s face revealed behind the rent

in the sky, but he may be watching

the show someplace else, his neck

as sore as ours.

            Job’s job

No sleep, bad back,

sore throat, looks like rain,

eggs too hard, toaster broken,

news all bad, out of soap,

just bills, wrong number,

tire’s flat, you’re still gone,

no poem today, that’s all.

            Noah’s complaint

The sound of rain

bleating down with cries

of pain and dread, nubby sheets

of rain falling with grace

on the parched hearts

of the departed, eyelashes

of rain fluttering onto cheeks

already damp with tear, bellyaches

of rain protesting too much, acres

of rain, fists of rain, an open hand

filled to the brim with rain, a longing

in the gut, a crying out for rain, a dream

of rain that never came, a shaking

of the head against the rain, a lowering

of the head, acquiescence, a prayer, a kiss,

a promise.