Sunday, January 11, 2009

Winslow Homer

It is so sad and grey,
the way you can't tell 
the sea from the sky
on a Prout's Neck evening.
And one moment the white you see is
a soft cloud and the next
it's an explosive wave.
And its so hard looking at art with you.
And we just can't agree
on the meaning of a painting
because you try to crack the code
and I know that the whole point
is the sharp first moment that you
feel the twinge --
That dagger to the spleen
sting in the tearducts.
The kind of feeling that 
makes you run to the docent
and ask for a pen. 

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