I will go mad if you do not write soon
muttering charcoal, gold spinnakers off
past oceans, my hair a compendium
a sailor’s book of every kind of knot

If I could backmask all your vinyl sighs
unzip the sky, refurbish the mountains
with your corduroy light, fevers drawn out
my own star, you are as cold as heaven

the world is a shiny gun, a bullet
that’s going to backfire, out of your hands
while I keep longing for yellow dresses
and meeting you in your Allen Edmonds

but each to his own, artful persuasions
Cezanne’s apples, and all the finished poems
of the Romantics- if you write at all,
it is possible, just I will read it

judging by, our love, the artist’s reward
I say this will be a year of first drafts
the way I sailed unversed frames on water
the day you gave each last painting away

Copyright © 2019 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

#2016