October 27th 2021
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.