The Brush Reminds Paint of Itself

a dory slips downstream,

bellwethering for some swans—the river

all watercolor, flies

washed so lightly—a fish leaping

from bright blue water sings of his painter—the wicker

creel is satchel for his palette—the sky water,

and the river oil—open your ear

to the canvas which is angels

singing—more water, more color, corbeil

of blue—the meadow asks something

new of light—katsura cosseted—the fisherman’s orange

gives air some shape—paddleboats

sidewise—now a charcoal motorcycle along the far bank

—tar mess!—the back tire spits

sand everywhichway—the sand

is stars—tiny grains of light

scattered across the seraphim

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