I never much cared for watercolours
I always lose the pigments in the wash
vistas doomed to be overcast
in the pine groves wept from a flaking brush.
I don't like that kind of responsibility.
Give me oil. Thick like Cleopatra's
the meat of all mediums
heat the world with ochre, umber, crimson
spread me with a knife, with sinning hands
my eyes flick around the canvas
wipe the frosting on my red dress
a guilty nun's habit.
But the tide is out again.
The spectrum fades.
Today is for watercolours.
I'll drip steadily from the canvas
and live in the stains on the hardwood floor
peering upward and waiting for April.