Cezanne’s Arranger
I thought we had an
arrangement?
Red apples and green pears
In a blue bowl on a white
linen runner askew alive
atop a sturdy little table
on stout gymnasts legs
a fat round greenish
bottle or pitcher
worn arched handle
burnished warm by
hand after hand after
hand balanced on
the extreme corner
undulating neck lip
poised to pour a lick
of soft light agleam
afloat upon the swollen
globe hovering
somehow above the measured
notes of fruit
ajar cascading
down the scale in crazy
syncopation you, Cezanne
your point of view
a matter of conjecture
a marked departure
from my artfully
balanced design.
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