francis

Funny that you are an artist because you think like one touch like one as you describe my
Chiaroscuro cheeks in awe of the light the shade around us the sheets swirl unmade a
Van Gogh night sky but we are still to better see the speed the beams bounce it all goes
Back to the body everything is for us to consume we make it that way it is all for eyes ears
Nose mouth hands guts brain heart spirit soars as you caress my contours I sense the
Sculptor in you stroking away at the stone shedding the stubbornness finding human form
Beneath suspended Woodman delicate disgusting transcendental trickery can you feel
Your blood quickening dribbling drying rich russet paint that makes sense of this blank
Canvas the way you arrange and divide my sight my attention with your skill your hands
How have you sown planted nourished these thoughts Pollock surprise heartlight shines
Brighter now I know how you see me a beauty similar to art itself not always attractive but
Always challenging the grotesque is sacred why else decorate churches with gargoyles


emily s. morgan (Cambridge, 1990)