The poet doesn’t invent. He listens. – Jean Cocteau

The painter scuttles in

Brows arc his forehead while the right hand

It quivers

With an itch

A panel before him boasts opacity

The white cloud stretched

Taut as a soldier’s sheet

Now, where begins the treasured brush

The painter fills his lungs, but the hunger tastes no catalyst

Pupils dilate, dart the room

Door, wall, the window pane

Just as chimes call beyond the glass

Imagine, those church goers clad like summer

They stroll nearby

Lively mouths and spirit.

What muse is to be ignored

Less art suffer a poisonous seclusion 

The painter pushes from easel

Listening to the bells