Tuesday, September 3, 2013



The New Yorker never mentions
The smell of linseed oil in the basement
Where my late father painted shadows
Out of synch with their suns.

His paintings hang in my living room
And lean against walls in the attic
Echoing di Chirico, and Hopper, and Wyeth
Like good shoes in marble caverns.

Nothing like, but not that different from
Ellsworth Kelly’s delicate plant drawings
With their fine, palsied lines
Hanging this summer in the Met.

No comments: