Sanskrit Literary-Arts Review, 2016
Hand me that kaleidoscope, Pierre. How can I see what you see, pink foam and devil’s own Green pitched in with the obvious hue? I’m asking because I’m asking, because I squint and tip
My head and look outside and whether the sky is sun or surly all I see across the ocean is blue. I’ve got my brushes and my clover palette in one shaking hand, and my eyes on the function
And the form. Come hell or high noon I’m set on sketching this scene, salt water smeared
Across your delicate canvas, southwest wind. Cobalt and indigo, white and gray to emerald and
Rose, the edges split like hydra as the composition settles into its final self. Sit, and stay awhile Before you sail away, and tell me now: eyes wide shut, was it ever the weather or the wave?