The Beach Hat
The blue broach is the
first to go;
short stroke of ultramarine
warmed
by some earth hue pulled
right to left
across a wet ochre petal
humming
in silence at the point
of acute angle
parting the breasts, drawing
the eye,
note of blue mirrored in
the churning
chaos of the muddied
wings brimming
the beach hat, poised
to bear aloft
her becalmed grey eyes,
level gaze
holding me forever
suspended,
reason enough to let
them fly away
along with the fluted
nose, tight pink
bud of mouth, mirrored
green question
mark along the right hand
contour
of her face, red on low
boil in the hair
and neck, sweater a
pair of hands clasped
in prayer around
welling passages of
greys, blues and
yellows in the blouse,
every stroke and jab
gone, right down
to the vibrating torrent
of background
that pools about the
figure in eddies
and cross currents,
washing all away,
white canvas scoured
clean save
for feint remains of
the artist’s signature
tucked into the bottom
left hand corner,
a name I invoke, present,
by some quirk of fate,
a rip in the fabric of
time, at the beginning:
begging Robert Cozad
Henri
let me stay to witness the
first thin layers,
what to leave in, what
to leave out,
The
Beach Hat appearing before my eyes.
