Moves

The studio smells, comfortingly,

like things you could die by inhaling.

The two neat rows of benches,

broken only by tall metal easels,

are half filled when I come in.

I pull out my paints:

Alizarin, azo, Prussian blue.

I set to work, and I do what I do.

Mix the colors to match the world,

smear across the canvas, define the shapes,

move the paint.

When I leave the studio, the paint

moves:

off the canvas, across the world.

Prussian blue plus white plus a little ’aliz

and the sky comes into focus.

The colors that mixed on the palette before,

now mix a little easier, and a little more.

A picture frame falls around this cityscape,

framing a painting for a moment, a split second.

Then the car moves away

and the could-be painting is lost,

the perfectly imperfect composition gone

replaced by a new frame and

again the colors mix and show me how to blend,

but the car moves.