Glacial yet weightless
A vision of blurred figures
Luminous air
Still Providence afternoons
Ancient and peeling RISD rooms.
A slow progression like a drifting balloon.
Traveling Infinite spaces between
Clumps of paintbrushes
Stacked like silent spears in big tin cans
Crumpled toothpaste tubes of oils and acrylics
Laid out on weathered wood
Semblance of linear order,
Bodies of disaster victims, faces covered.
There is no blood
But adjacent to memory
Spattered paint speaks to a distant Pollock violence.
Curses on your back, you who broke that lock.
Shame to you who removed the chain-
When you stole her bicycle,
You killed her just the same.
We will never know your name,
But we shall remember hers.
Francesca,
Every day I think of art,
You live in me again.
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