one with exuberant smile,
shield and a form of sword,
dure as baked tile, glazed,
brittle boned. worn smooth
not so by age as such born—
bred, yet still wet gilled
and scaled; embarked on marathon
crawl to marrow and a dawn.
I Cannot Write Those Poems
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I cannot write those beloved poems,poems of nature and love, poems on how
lighttakes its time on surfaces like a beloved’s hand in leisurestroking
with ple...
5 hours ago
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2 comments:
Une peinture de Gauguin ?
yes Jean,
it certainly is Gauguin
and one of my favorites.
thank you for stopping over.
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