He says when the color runs, chase it with the brush,
chase it into a flower or better yet, into two flowers.
It may catch your ear like a birdsong in winter, walk
like a cat dipped in yellow, leaving wet questions.
Become the pitcher, open your mouth to the milk or morning
orange juice, sitting in a window seat by the sea.
Sometimes, only black will stick, the others slide
and puddle. Everyone looks better black anyway.
Paint the model's want for clothes, the way she holds
her fingers splayed, giving out lying invitations.
Round off the canvas corners if you must, but remember,
they come back square; unnatural as a lightbulb's glare.
Filled with light is blinding; white is only used
to bring a color within a lick of godhood.
Smells are often blue, or green, but never, never red.
Red smells are craziness in a painter's pocket.
Make a bird look like a bird, or a lake like water,
but let their shadows bruise the paper like beasts.
The Face Of God
Do You See The Face Of God In This Cloud? On a bus,
but sun shines through the paper and all I see
is a tall woman holding a tiny, moustached man.
I would see it, if he quit doing the crossword
and I was next to him with the adjective meaning
"filthy." His pen gives God a pock-marked nose.
If I stare, he'll lift it up, use it for scissors
to cut the string between our eyes. Wish they had
an arrow to point at all the things I miss.
God's face in a cloud, how I can be the best sex
he ever had, the recipe for 12-ounce pound cake.
I stare, he winks and fills in 20-down, "nasty."