Dressed only in a slip, at a table covered 
with a floral tablecloth, in a room covered 
with floral wallpaper, my hands, too, 
are covered with flowers. The darkness, smears and whirlpools of light
suggest confusion or velocity, a hand making an animal shadow on the wall, 
the unstable line between things real and depicted
resulting from the physical compatibility of flesh-
and object-based beauty 
with their shaky black contours.

I keep these thoughts in my heart,
I still think my thoughts.

Two bowls of fruit and a bouquet of flowers, among other objects, 
can be discerned. Whittled wood, bits of broken glass, slate, putty,
ball and socket of the radial bone, intricate hinges
of the finger bones, the way the eyeball moves 
in its socket: it's as if messages are buried in innocuous objects,
and one must uncover the true meanings.

Tonight a cold rain falls on Tucson.
A fragment of steel placed against a dark blue background
becomes a vision of human frailty. You as a subject
are a propeller form, precise
but free.

A shaft extending from left to center is barely visible
but is an essential aspect. Pushing the propeller into the rear 
while seeming to scatter "seed-circles," you are a figure built up 
of ocher, gold, brown, and gray
laid over a creamy ground dappled with pink (me).
Color becomes a means of differentiating between one figure
and another, between figure and ground.

I had to lie on comfortable mats on the floor
and look at (flowers) projected on
the ceiling.

Tissues, cells, follicles, organs, veins
and fluids: symmetry and individuality add up
to a propeller/flower.

Now, give me some
that I can put inside my mouth
to taste.



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