and I am half-scuffed with grief
a red diamond on a red ground
drop of condensation from the brandy glass
my mother would give me for a sore throat
have you heard of Raoul Dufy and is it said like Duffey?
and I haven’t heard of The Entry of Christ into Brussels in 1889 in too long, like, 18 years. No one’s spoken of it in 18 years
Franz Marc’s Blue Horses, though. Someone’s told me about them, someone said, “They look like half-plums or men’s butts in bed.”
and then the grief was like a yardstick sutured to my spine with baling twine
or like a truss to my resolve, which splintered in a million moon-sherds
and about my grief, someone said, “A child could have done it.”
Someone said it was like a bean rubbed so the skin sloughed off in the bowl
Someone said, “Your grief is Rousseau’s lion looking over me as I sleep.”
Someone said, “The Four Elements looked better with older cars behind it.”
Someone said, “I see now why this book was free.”
and how I feel about Philip Johnson is
he designed the worst and best buildings in town
and how I feel about this brandy is
it’s the color of a soaked bean and my throat is half-soaked in it
and the other half feels like a red, broken stick
and all I want to do is sit in the grass at St. Thomas and bitch about its buildings
because that’s what Philip Johnson would want me to do
because I think we both regret how much we’ve made glass
