Hard Rain: The Condition of Desire

Life is like a colorfield without edges sometimes

ragged, and my many unfinished paintings a field

of personal debris undermined by time.

But if some distance could be conjured there

I might find the soft possibility of re-entry

a slow dance, an acceptance of the broken

pencil lined walls smudge filled dirty hole

filled work space in media res — life without

succumbing to half-life tendencies. Instead a

submission, a permission slip of the tongue,

an unpoisoned position, slack shaped and hollowed,

awaiting the embrace of the interruption, the milkweed

fiber strident and singing through the storm, touching

again the place where my canvas is thin most bare,

and undone, polishing the condition of this hard rain.