Preparation: A Sunday at the Met
He saw light clearly, directing hand to pencil,
paper, paint and canvas. It was all preparation
To the larger vision. The mix of color in the eye,
a summer’s shimmer. Heat, love, lust in a park.
Stumbling through these corridors, seeing past
The people, past crushing crowds, past the wet,
blurred shapes, there were twenty-seven drawings,
etchings and paintings. False starts, lovely beginnings.
He thought the world boundless: a collage of hues and
Shadows brought to order by the mysteries of the
Human eye. A lush park’s beauty against Paris’
loneliness and the omnipotent city squalor.
Seraut is inked on the wall. Patrons with headphones,
intent on the story, don’t realize that it hangs before them.
If they only looked, saw what he drew, what he painted,
Forgot, for a moment, their need for specifics.
His body failed him, wracked in pain and disillusionment.
People had a hand in this: their mistrust of luminism,
their own hearts, gossip’s daily dose, a fear of something
New, something given as an unaccountable effect.