It takes a lot of energy
for the brain to crush together enough information to give us our ideas.
We poets have spoken ad nauseum about the insides of our skulls,
but one more allegory couldn't hurt.
I do not know the artist who painted this particular piece.
it seems that they were trained in many styles.
Perhaps they were banging around in my hippocampus
when they happened upon an old sentence from a novel and the color of my nursery walls.
they dipped their smallest brush into the sentence's ink before thinning it out with some cerebrospinal fluid.
They began with this line here, see?
This long movement.
The brush was loaded with a lot of ink.
Sweeping gesture, pastose indication.
Once the outline was complete, the artist washed their brush with cool, clear water
And picked up their palette knife
Not unlike de Kooning, the artist took the colors of the nursery and scraped
Scraped them onto the canvas.
They stepped back, cuticles filled to bursting with left over acrylic
And they hung it in its place on the wall.
As I admire it, I still can not know what this particular piece will be.
A novel? A poem?
I must wait and see
see when it is plucked from this wall and brought into our world,
because time?
time is the only thing
that will tell
