took a photograph of sunday night
then blew it all onto a wall in paint
something stirs in the brittle light –
almost like your first vacation’s
abrupt denoument; studio sounds
erupt into white (the power’s down)
this wasn’t scripted neither were
your forearms’ shudders – closing
in on abstract stalks that make a
silhouette in green a single figure
walks on your microscopic moon
but he’s a fake the painting’s done
in someone else’s living room now
on corsica perhaps in a sun room
or brightening the concrete day …
alone at last in a private church
where guardrails keep the volk at
bay or catalogue this desperate
silence that makes photorealistic
snow swept the candles gutted or
a chair pushed back like a lock
of black & white hair; poised for
an ironic pose jackie onassis is
becoming bored reading newsprint
on the freshly-plastered walls …
inside an album sleevenotes keep
their peace; & revolutions occur
on a momentary basis swinging on
chandeliers borrowed from the cast
(we all need to eat) in this essay
at last the landscape is given its
due & sleighbells ring out like
broadway tunes or stolen dogs &
here at last stands gerhard richter
