IMPOSSIBLE
After John Ashberry
Shave of Parmigiano, dropped-off in a blue truck
right click to the raven gathering water in its beak
the trout balancing on light beam, we cut together
the first movement to moving to the waves the swan swims
up the heel of the cliffs we reach Assisi we reach
the gardens of Ferdinand we surface in New York where you are
measuring yourself against death gazing eternally into
a glittering mirror. Dear John, where can an artist erase
his past? When can an idea leap out from under the subway?
It is October, the colour of harvest rolls into the leaves
Luke has said I remind him of a picture of you.
We all know I am nothing like you. I am elephantine,
awkwardly climbing a sphere to peer at great artists.
Their heavenly energy, not much can save me from
jigsaw puzzles, capsizing in the year five football team.
Dream: the colours of the pope's robes, the delicate brushes
Correggio, Raphael and Michelangelo used to caress
the paint around the lines or in-between the lines
they are each attempting to do something unusual
they each move into the gap between nuance and
nuance. Naked light pops the expanding universe.
The untimely arrival of the electricity bill
and is as it is or as it was or as it will be
the silver patter of verse on the epiphany river
the handsome children pressed against the rain
the watch ticking of its own hands the mercury
Patrick's eyes glazed over in the falling snow Patrick
who replies by sending me the same message twice
I am not sure why he has sent me the same message twice
a mistake I guess. I take another look. No. I'm still not sure.