Poetry

While Reflecting on the Paintings at The Mill

Each canvas

displays a struggle,

a conquest

of human will over physical matter.

 

“I let the cosmos ripen,”

says the painter,

“just long enough for it

to sprout elements,

(not one eon more),

 

“When the metals bloomed

I plucked them,

seeded them,

and crushed the seeds

so small,

they would forget themselves

if introduced to oil

or bound to water.

 

“A child was born.

When I was ready

I crushed that, too.

 

“I smeared

each gooey, bleeding offspring

on the pinboard with its brothers.

Baby Frankensteins

broken,

drowned,

and dried onto canvas

by my loving hand.

Each infant of the universe

frozen in beautiful mutilation.

 

“It won’t last.

 

“Eventually,

Grandmother Entropy

will restore paint, canvas, and painter

all to the former glory of

ash,

like a phoenix in reverse.

 

“But for now my trophies hang.”

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