An ekphrastic poem about a strange painting.
Was there a crystalline, radiant
Gaze before that hand spoiled your face
And left it in the ruins of those
Throngs of awful yellow?
What color was your hair
Before that ivy border trapped
And set your head among those shades of gray, and
The first thousand or so hasty strokes
That weren’t good enough?
When did your mouth bloom,
And start speaking in the tongues
Of a putrid, stagnant color?
Did I see you first,
Or did I speak to you last?
It doesn’t mean anything though.
I won’t be taking you home with me.