Geologic or Painterly Stasis      

                                                                by William Doreski



                                                   The steel-gray morning looks grim.

                                                   I could strip it, nail the hide

                                                   to the side of the barn. No barn,

                                                   though, only the blank back wall

                                                   of my garage. Not large enough

 
                                                                to accommodate a cosmic grin

                                                   of such amplitude. Yesterday

                                                   when you stared so blankly I felt,

                                                   despite the people around us,

                                                   adrift in a Luminist seascape--

 

                                                   water and light and massive sky

                                                   chiming in a varnished silence.

                                                   I don’t know what you were thinking,

                                                   but the muddy brown of your gaze

                                                   cooled like a crust and I feared

 

                                                   I’d remain adrift for eons

                                                   of geologic or painterly

                                                   stasis, until the nova sun

                                                   absorbed whatever remained.

                                                   The spell broke. You walked away

 

                                                   without a backward glance. The crowd

                                                   scattered, leaving scraps of paper

                                                   scrawled with useless notes. Meetings

                                                   always end with a shudder

                                                   of insult, but yesterday’s featured

 

                                                   that imposition of silence

                                                   you’d never imposed on me before.

                                                   Now the morning looks too tough

                                                   for Martin Johnson Heade or John

                                                   Kensett to depict. No palette

 

                                                   holds such drab. You won’t notice

                                                   this formal absence, your attention

                                                   focused on your books and breakfast

                                                   dose of vodka, your sienna gaze

                                                   exploring a private sublime.