poem

The Beach Hat

The blue broach is the first to go, short stroke

of ultramarine warmed with some earth hue

pulled right to left over a wet ochre

petal a-hum in silence at the point  

of the acute angle parting her breasts,

drawing the eye, note of soft blue mirrored

in the churning chaos of the thick band

above the spread of the rich muddied wings

of the brim on the beach hat poised to bear 

aloft those becalmed grey eyes, the level

gaze holding me suspended forever,

reason enough to let them fly away

along with the fluted nose, the tight pink

bud of the mouth the mirrored green question

mark searching for answers along the right

hand contour of her face, red on low boil

in the hair the neck the sweater like hands clasped

in prayer around welling passages of

greys blues and yellows in the blouse, each and

every stroke and jab gone, right down to the

vibrating torrent of the background that

pools about the figure in eddies and

cross currents washing it all away, white

canvas scoured clean save for the feint remains

of the artist’s signature tucked into

the bottom left hand corner, a name I

shall invoke, present by a quirk of fate,

a rip in the fabric of time at the

beginning begging, pleading with Robert

Cozad Henri, let me stay and witness

the first thin layer, what to leave in, leave

out, The Beach Hat appearing before my eyes.