and tears a weed up,
dripping like a chandelier,
whil e paddling behind are the derelict rodents ,
hankering-with big sleepy eyes,
suggesting something like matrimonial bliss,
and pI ush gray fur,
undulating like the coat my mother wore–
to hunt the grass-shrouded
cygnet eggs and gut
their bloody embryos.
CAROLINE SANDERSON
A Colorist
My friend who sees everything
in black and whi te,
naturally dislikes shades of gray.
The color of compromi se, gray,
she would say and be mean about it -
a color in which to hide hope.
But when it is guiet, not every
conversation can be in black and whi te -
there was Picasso in Paris,
nineteen-forty-two, forty-three
(and worse) -
casually failing his friend,
his friend who was a Jew.
Had he never seen a dove
dodge a hunter's madness?
Had he ever seen Proust become
frightened of lilac?
I think we'd better leave him in Paris
in nineteen-forty-two,
better leave Picasso there.
Probably sleeping well
and worshipped (so they say) so well.
