death was not so much final as it was finished
like a chalked profile slowly filled
with asphalt and aspirations
blackness as texture and tone
the mixture for pencils broken in desperation
upon the outlined emptiness
within the outstretched hands
(the grabbing and pulling back)…
we sometimes die like unfinished sketches.
I can see him sitting in the basement
in the darkness, for long periods of time
staring at the dusty, webbed, gray paper
(and the occasional unopenable window)
holding, caressing, the tinted skin
he had poured himself into
(brown like himself and just as fragile)
a prop for the art,
the partial depictions of the man
that he had run away from,
of the man he had become,
with each stroke that he didn’t make her
scream out his favorite portrait,
or simply appraise him as a man
within the walls of that gallery
(uneven alley of self-portraits bought and sold)
where each of their works were displayed
(it was her motions that often formed
the brush, if not her tongue)…
there is that portrait on the elder’s wall
confirming that he had compared sketches with the sun
and had exchanged notes with leaves that fell out of season
beauty both portrayed and betrayed, turned against,
within the walls of that gallery
(collections of reproduced conscience bought and sold)
where his profane works were the most celebrated…
we are sometimes forgotten like lost sketches.