Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Dead Nature

Evidence of Martha
these last few months
and the slow
drift into an Indian Summer.
I’m obsessed with the peaches
in the bowl
on her table in the lounge room.
In the horoscope
I saw an artist’s gaze.
A fighting gape
like Vincent’s
or a old duffa’s blare
like Rembrandt’s in the dock
of the Bankrupt Court.
Either suits me fine.
Evidence of Crystal
rising out of the bath
and I could take her
from behind
like Ingres.
The French call it
Dead Nature. A cracked
lobster or a spiral
of dried lemon rind
spotting the reflecting grapes
with yellow. Silly thing,
I left the keys
on the easel, so
no chance of getting
the two Eskimo pies
I promised.

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