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I See How You Look at Things that Aren't Me (And I Can't Take It)

 

 

it’s not the art, it’s the way you look at a painting that removes me from my skin.

did someone ever           tell you                     you look                   in cursive?

I watch you       spellbind,         ploy                        the scaling paint,         chipper  

but chipping     like a flat, flash     of lightning             now yellow sand now glass,   

now curvaceous         like your trembling hands,            outlining a shape too small        

to fit the size of your perspective.                        it takes whatever of you it can get.                          

just like me.                            I have to touch it,                                            you say. 

your soles rise a few inches,            and then,                                 you lean forward, 

and I know your name isn’t Alice,             but what if                           you fall in?    

your fingers bleed dry            from pointing,                                 strokes hanging

like bodies from a bridge,             and then,                                         you cry      

holding                   in your palm                     the figure in the foreground.

my fingers are             erasers,                 if you want.                   don’t, you say.   

like blinding headlights                                                 the colors ricochet.    

while my palette is dry,                                 yours as full as a volcano of white ash. 

I hate white.         for even how you look       at a blank canvas           confuses me.                         

the museums that stress on the silence are my favorite.