Another Striped Painting

Another Striped Painting

This time, about mending— 

about the sycamore

and the violet rupture

cradled in its long flank, 

flecks of naphthol

scattered over brackish panels

of what was, when you began,

sky— Here, movement

is not the same as decision,

the way you lean over 

somebody you haven’t touched, 

yet or for a while, rehearsed

stillness the taut frame

over which everything hangs

knowing only an hour

from now you’ll return

to your studio’s white corner 

and two dim windows

behind which the real 

sycamore lives. And the oil

will still be wet, even

the thin lines you laid down

yesterday, so there’s nothing

to do but wait.