it is just past 2am, awaken on the couch,
S. has a bad cold, and I disembark at ports
of rooms far from the common bedroom,
to avoid the intense colors of the common cold,
tho peeking in on her throughout the day,
with popcorn sweet, popsicles, water, toasted
baguette with Belgian butter and strawberry
jam from our local farm, a summer residual
resident in our December citified refrigerator…
this delivery guy also provides the sectionals,
the Book Review, the Sunday Magazine,
and forehead warmth to the touch touches,
for though cold and old verbally ven intra~connect,
the reality is that they’re just enemies, adversaries,
and best keep and kept in separate room quartered
containers
in the dark, I write musings upon how a Cubist
paints a bouquet, how to truly see, wherein
lies the overlap of poetry, painting and photography,
each sense, trying two modalities to uncover, discover,
then
recover them, to envision and revision what the world
sets out to display upon a tabula rasa, and issues commands,
like observe, witness, explore, sensate, investigate or to
truly see the overlap of the human eye and the innate
mind’s eye, permitting us become the synthesizer of both
with our ever evolving given tools
in my posses, I think I've come to love certain items only after
accidental interaction & investigation led me to them;
items of color
(here i pause~stop, sleep is knocking)
three things of color do I so enjoy,
first came colored gems,
then came the flowers
for sale at my corner bodega,
lastly and most recent, I’ve
started to mentally catalogue
the shadings of the human skin