you're back on canvas
and so is my
it's no inscrutable painting
a thousand strokes couldn't save the scene
yet I move the brush as if to mean
there is something here for saving
a day
a long, tedious, injured day
drags by
rotting awareness and acumen
and as you walk me through
and talk me through
I realize I can't possibly consider it
as well as you
a painting is nothing but paint
a sculpture is nothing but clay
if you would swallow an ounce of this art
you'd choke as you tried to explain
your definition is merely supposition
over lunch
and under duress
so step back from the easel
stop trying so hard
there is no inscrutable painting
any stroke is a waste of time
this brush is but a tool of mime
and your empathy is fading
(she stood silent and frightened in her mask confusion
holding her guts, dreading the inevitable evaluation)
it is a refined and friable art
a tear-polished, facile figure
I've scrutinized this work in your gallery
and found no reason to love her
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