Erasure
The hand that drew the picture, for all we
know emerged borne by birds from an empty
sleeve or split a rock in search of the sun,
small hard fist unfurled with the first
rays
of dawn, grasping fingers eager to dip
deep into bowls of blood and ochre, smear
first wet marks in great fanned arcs, layer
in
eons of gracefully wrought mutation
while we froth at the mouth, enraged
patrons
of the arts barricaded behind blind
certainty, flocking to the galleries
of Conversion or Condemnation where
we cluck at philistines, stoop to conquer,
plot their salvation or annihilation,
in thrall to a fickle artist, wanton
pirates in contempt of the masterpiece
we gleefully deface with our wielded
tireless erasers. You can still see
feint shades of wide sand beaches, intact
tops
of green mountains against clear blue skies
the
lights of coastal cities shimmering on
the horizon from moonlit decks of ships
at sea.
In a chair at the rail I sit,
my eraser poised above memories
of hushed winters, overnight snow lapping
at windows, late afternoon shadows cast
by bare thieving trees slipping the last
light
of day into pockets, stark armature
of their branches extending fragile gifts
of sifted chaff, prints from some extinct
beast
leading back to the smudged horizon, snow
shoes biting the bones of my melted dreams.
