I examine my coat for holes,
angles moving toward the symmetry of age,
a crack between tenses.
The Dutch for lack of chins,
round homely Van Loons,
employ their art instead of surgery,
a gauze of light, a color scheme, a screen.
Van Gogh's wheat fields at Arles, at Cuivers,
besieged by cows,
by thunderclouds, the Reaper,
the tongues of Babel just a temporary measure.
words for April
9 hours ago