WEBVTT

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Memoir.

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Out of the shadows
from the lamp at night,

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we'd see the lines of
Braque on the walls.

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Or where the shadow cut across
the books, the free formality

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of a pink Matisse.

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My eye recalls the
mustache of Rousseau

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above my lover's smile.

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The light delineates them so,

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each innocent of style.

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Plaiting my hair, the
room would be at peace.

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I recall him now, my
lover of the academy.

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How the page of my darling's
ever changing choice

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would be open to some
unraveled evanescent verse

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as he grumbled on, a man
alone with his voice.

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Oh, not one word in an
ordinary way to tell us

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meanings reverse, that
the back of the hand

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is stranger to the palm of the
hand, just the unmindful voice

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taking its single journey
divorced from danger.

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Out of the shadows
of the street by day

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I see the rain at
the gutted curb

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or where the fountains play in
the circular masonry, a verb

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without release, the
spew of a stone cherub.

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My heart searches for
some ingenuous grace

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and waits outside the room
where all things cease.

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