making art out of his morning coffee grounds, ashes and matchsticks
1
A black & white world, more beautiful than any scorched by color. But the beauty here is finite – immediately an act of the imagination, not as we see (in color) but transformed, by subtraction, into a foreign world.
2
I am aware of it -- & you – but you, I dare to think, are far from it – out of the picture, cut from sight. This is another subtraction – the person who should be there but who is missing – truly. For this I bite my hand & I return to sleep.
3
Scarce & so received
as to be harmless,
languishing,
his hands held open,
gilded, like a saint.
Who is this cavalier?
I hesitate
to name him – one
without a name.
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