from THE LANDSCAPES WERE IN MY ARMS
Sometimes an avenue itself is the masterpiece. In France gold arrests the street like a sequin wheeling its shine around. Form and light translated by how heavily they close in on the eye. Cezanne tells the volume of a building in negative silver on a black lake. Seurat’s planed angles, smeared bodies at the bathhouse. I wonder: what is the distance between the real here and the here I wake up fighting off. That on the lit edge of our block we counted quail in their parade—is this the composite present or grey debt languishing on half my bed. The face, too, a jagged ground of impression. How I see you and then how I remember you.
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