I set up the stillife I was working with in LI over the summer.
None of it made it except the idea in my poem. 1992
carrying the paints
down the beach, then back to the car,
He’d done this so many times before
the scene of a fiction,
He’d forget, he’d do it again
the pitcher was blown over
the changing season,
painting the skull, water bottle and bread
with a sprig of holly,
Paul, thought it from Chardin or Manet,
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