Serial Ariel

All those pictures of that god-damned church,
While true, are not the same. The light would
Change, the time of day, the weather, how
The painter'd spent the hours before he came
To paint, and, thus, some churches glower
Underneath unstable, stormy skies; some
Glow, instead, beneath the sort of gentle
Sun of lullabies. The church is life, and
Then it's death, and we who've come
To see them know the images are not
The church. They're paintings; each
Exists alone, and I pontificate on Monet's
Rouens because poems that I write, while
Of you, are not you. Some days, it seems
You do not love me. Other days, I think
You do.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 51 times
Written on 2015-06-23 at 01:01

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text