I bumped into another autumn morning. Ouch.

I admit it, I was looking over my shoulder

then over another shoulder, then over there

at where something has just vanished from the sky

like Poussin adding pigment to remove

a flock of pigeons from beyond a citadel,

painting, therefore, aftermath itself.

Like long-exposure prints of rivers, every

painting is a painting of an after,

the present moment streaming into history

behind the canvas like inks in fast water.

I run my throbbing head beneath the tap

and think, does ‘me’ begin at skin

or some other, further cloud.