but only paint, the contact of the brush against the canvas
is all that is that ever is.
Union with the tides between the waves that are paint,
the beach that is the brush,
the peninsula that is the stem,
that joins the foam of fermenting ideas,
with the solidity of the fluid world.
Cover every canvas only with what you see.
Meditation on the meaning that disentangles
the subject from the artist,
it is there, there there.
But oh how all of this is false,
to paint is to embrace the outside
take it whole and holy, in.
As I would make this permanence of a dew,
so I must take into myself,
the wonder that is you.