Richard In The Orchard

Author: he has slipped
a manipulation of the mind; mine.

Past rows that glow, he walks
where abstracts contract and harden
into facts—their magic
more exacting than this sifting shape; the fantastic
now practical.

Chernobyl harvests: inedible, they stir
regard—carpenter or god,
engineer of clear parts,
their maker appears.

Words on interiors cannot be
seen or shared;
images are louder. In these trees—
here, is power.

And you, looking
back at my branch, view
Impressionist reds, ripening
notions: disnebulous rubella,
their vermilion skins value

yielding their paints
in waves of rosacea.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.