AND THEN
The cantilevered rainbow falls; it topples
like broad light from a sullen sky, overstepping
bounds and limits. Into that one place, we
fall, following that which draws us. In the upstairs
loft, the artist is heaving paint, his strong and
recurrent brush piling pigment into the matter
while, off-side in practice, a supple jazz band
pirouettes its whiz-bang soundings. If all of this
were fifty years ago, I'd believe in it much more.
-
As it is, candy-sweet and wrapped in today's idea
of festive doubt, everything goes on. Plans are made,
and that woman, again, the one with the two red
shoes, drifts in as nimble as a kite string. But,
she goes nowhere. No flight, not ever drift. Just
another drink is poured, and then,
just another more.
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