I am interlaced with

burning columns of cloud

thinking of Pierre Bonnard and Greg Devlin

of artists at their windowsills

savaging the landscape

their hourglass eyes

and their laser handguns

life has been drinking from me

I shape this putty

on a circuit board mattress

but still your pictures and words

come back to me in a storm

painters and poets

fierce brave souls of the night

play me a song like a powerline

show me your fencepost

and your drapes of gold

show me your open field

and your shades of shadow

make me entranced at the dress she wore

late at night with eyes shining

particles aloof on their points of needle

late at night would you let me

watch you wash the dishes

late at night would your souls come to help me

Greg Devlin and Pierre Bonnard

I hear the ground falling

I am kept alive in such strange hours

I am the horse's service and the gamble's keep

take time to enliven the chains

of this web all around me

I am sounding off on some gone color

I listen to heavy metal I have a glass ear

I crave my armchair

artists in need of night come back again

carry my hammock of leaves

and my whirlwind coffin

carry my tools of lead

through a rain that sees.