from
"The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"

Bless the sky out the window. Bless the window.
Bless the wall, the table, the darkness in the corner

of the kitchen, the darkness where her symmetry
meets our eyes. Bless the light which lights her hair,

which touches the flush at her throat.
Bless her breasts and our eyes which see her meekness.

Bless the stillness as evening comes on and
the museum's emptiness. Nothing is as soft

as nothing. Bless the cricket chirping its last
sadness, as if nothing else matters. Bless its sadness.

from
"The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"

A faraway rain,
the smell of it.
Perhaps she would

turn her head to see
the storm coming in,
if she had a window,

if there were a storm.
There is so much
we don't know about

out beyond the yellow
walls of her kitchen,
out beyond what

the artist wanted
to paint, and what
he painted. Listen.

In the distance,
if only in your
imagination, thunder.

from
"The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"

"The fear of the infinite
is the same as death,"
Derek Walcott said,

and I think he meant it.
The permanence of art
is the same as death

the woman in the painting
says. She speaks only
to herself, of course.

The museum is dark
and she is alone.
Where there is no light

there is no color and
a silence which breaks
her heart. She would turn

from darkness, yet it
holds her here. This stillness
is the same as death.