after Andrew Wyeth
A picture of a house
hangs in the house in the picture
of a house on a hill
and so on, each girl afraid to turn her back
the yearling hung in the corn crib, gutted,
dead eyes wide, front hooves scraping
the slatted floor
the man with his blood-smudged cheek
she thinks of following that rutted lane
as if she could walk out of the world
and not step right back into
that house
2 comments:
I really like these new poems, and
this one--it's subtle but very
mysterious throughout, and the images reverberate, shifting to front and back, like a filmstrip
in the mindscape of the speaker/
poet--and so much is emanating out of that repeated word HOUSE . . .
Thanks, David...I'm glad you like them. This new way of courting inspiration, by conversing with other artists and their work, helps me kind of step into the background. It's interesting for me, to discover which paintings make me need to write about them.
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