Poets' Practice Pad

Scraped Canvas

I wanted to paint
not with flashy brushwork, but
with painterly refinement,
the wilderness of our existence,
giving it a sunlit middle ground,
squeezing out the paint--
cadmium yellow light
indigo, burnt sienna--
in visual vibrations,
mixing in the middle
our elevated silence,
dimming and softening
with each glance,
light against dark,
and density
in varied proportions.

Yet, expunging my labor
the hardening heart,
with rags handy
wiped out the light's ability
to reach ordinary moments,
leaving me with
a blank, mud-colored canvas,
dry to the touch.

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