The Art of Going West toward Ottawa with a Complete Forgery of Vermeer’s ‘The Little Street’ in Our Trunk, After the Rain Stops Once Again

{for Grandma Moses}

.

Don’t stop when we get to the border, no matter how shaken
, stirred we are by this heisted hum. Don’t mourn that moon

behind us, or this star-scarred sky, or that sinister shade of
blue. They’ll catch us if we stop, {don’t stop}, between the day’s

tales and the dawn, between the intricate howling of this wand
-ered breeze. To fish, to wish, to kiss and tell, we must cast a

spell of quiet (s)laughter, gold paint noise. We’ll dot-to-dot math
our way, folding the map into this dark-spade sky, all white paper

snow and charcoal smudge. Remember back when Nostradamus
sneezed in apothecary glee? He said we’d get away with it (or not),

all gypsy heart and bright petaled teeth, some pinprick ceiling
shadow show for the masses. He gave us jukebox jangle passes

(with gregarious gratis)to please us, to tease us into squeaking in
syllables, translations with exclamation points against all that

black. We’re never taking this evening’s sketch back, nor tomorrow
morning’s jealous scattered things. Banish us if you will, fill our

pockets with unquiet storms, some view of licensed reason we can
no longer free. Release us to the moon. She’s got a paintbrush and

a lucky #2 pencil, a penchant for love and costly lust and the lonely
penning of letters to an indignant sky. Hate us in our slippers, ceilings,

houses made of glass. Show us where the yellow dotted lines might
pass, where the cobbled border might (not) lie, where the truth might

shine against all that black. We pass church, steeple, people steeping
in their hate and hesitant stumble. We steal umbrellas and guitars.

We strum.

 

..
In April, we poem. This is The One With All the Prompts, which also contains one phrase from at least one poem from each day this month.

In May, we rest. 

 

 

 

 

Advertisement