The Art of Evening
I've been thinking myself a painter in the attic,
brushes of skyest blue, blood red hands evening
on you – the sloping ceiling,
the tilting canvas,
with all your shadows and windows and leans.
I've been thinking myself a barefoot dervish, reeling in the darkening blur
sensing out some cool ground where my spinning round skirts will wow,
dashing paint from its umbrella tips
jeweling the old clay floor in a grandiose, homely spiral, gathering us in
a miraculous, lovely splatter.
I've been thinking myself precious as a green cat
balancing the long wall home,
all brassy eyes and springs in a writhing
Van Goghish twilight of purpling woodsmoke and silver leaves,
weaving soft ropes around your ankles with the whole of me.
But I have only been leaping
on blackening toes like a damned
lunatic, splurging and twisting and crippling
towards some half-baked mud where I can what?
Hitch my skirts and huckle down?
You avoid me,
a keen and a screak in the nothing,
an unseen colour. You
track off into the hills somewhere, all covered with paint,
the sunset lapping it up.