It is not about the lines
it is about the capacity of silence,
what has been written,
between, the lines.
A painting,
is not finite to what appears in the eyes
it is, in, infinite sights, of what doesn't.
It is to retrieve the brilliance
of what retained inconspicuous.
It is about myriad Aphrodites
behind the eyes of Adonis,
innumerous artifices
within the exiguous plots of each piece,
like the amplitude of silence
in the tumultuous traffic jam of poetical lines,
like skies
between the branches of a weeping willow,
a shining chandelier
suspended through
the trees.
I see a painting,
a man crossing a road in autumnal eve
under the rain
with umbrella:
I see how scarce seems
the scope of where that is safe and dry,
evading the soak, in the eyes of
beholders
along with evading
the drench of discernment
that is smudged
by the soaking rags of the raging rain.
