the soft thighs of renoir

the soft thighs of renoir's lover
are stroked upon my canvas, i have
the eyes of picasso in my head
my breasts belong to chagal my hair
an inka wave in grove of ice
offer me a a bite of that frosty
my brain freezes to munch.




**



at the entrance to the mobile home park
there are two storm fed reserviors, shallow
enough that they spillover in monsoon season
become delta pan in drought. this spring along
with ubiquitous ducks, black egrets, stately heron
at dusk, feeding with platypus bills,
a flock of six, sometimes eight roseate spoonbills.

they are only spectacular in plumage
only spectacular in a gentle swish of spoon through soup
the rise of the meal to the mouth, snails or bugs maybe
i have no idea what they eat, only when the spectacle
of clouds and sun turns the neon up , electric blue water
stirred by cherubic handles of baby hot pink, just a hint of red.


bleh.



but those birds. i guess i'm touched because they're endangered
(as are we all) so to see them moving
spooning photons of porous color into my eyes
i wonder how traffic doesn't stop, how news crews
are absent, how the miracle farmers do not harvest
this testimony to persistence. and then i give thanks
that they do not.



you can walk up to the water line
they won't walk away. it breaks me
the ten thousand on the hats of women
long dead as well. the absent flock
winging over the marsh toward the light, receeding.





















*(&









once we
were insects in
a gradern. you take this one
i'll take that.   common desire broke
the bond.







































(*









the brushstrokes, i can't speak on
with any authority. i didn't place them
so  much as try them on.