"Swimmer"
oil 2003
Hermit
I heard someone say that playing Beethoven is
like holding a jar of mad bees.
Feeling someone cry
is like lying supine
submerged
in a lake eyes open
Raindrops ticking the surface
merge and spread.
In one trajectory,
I can connect Leonardo to Cezanne to Willem.
In a mirror, the face I see begins its own migration.
I, the spectator; I, the sport
Falling through this spectral and stoic assembly
and endless parade.
I find no beautiful faces but
each has a canny equivalence.
(Note: Willem deKooning-line 8)