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.
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