In Response to Stephen Ratcliffe’s “Painting”

Imaging the glass wall as upholstery or as leisure suite, something that acts as cover, despite its fragile transparency, which this exact thought answers: Are you yet the person you once were, callous and bombastic, tender toward the overlooked and only when unseen, calling out, Morning, morning, ever aghast at the ways of your making, the same man who, without irony or reservation, lays claim to the I that each of us holds to as savagely as we hold to our final breath among the living

These are the feelings we stitch together about that gorgeous, impertinent person kneeling there in her form, undeterred by your scuffling desire, that thing you are unable to name that motors within you unceasingly, yielding the only objects passed between you: a watercolor, the driving coast, someone certain

A broken edge of white reveals not what is at first self–evident at daybreak along the room’s obvious threshold: that very same pleasure we give to one another not knowing that it is only ever a deviation, a small bird whose song you take before rending its chest for sustenance, for the ease of conquest, straight as the curve leans, as the slate beneath you insists on its moving