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.”
