145 For you, I broke the bones of frames that held my paintings. I rasped the skin away to see the hidden canvas. I tore apart its tightly interwoven sinews. I milled the splinters and the scraps to make new pigment. And then I copied from your eyes my shining image. I drew anew my paints and brushes, frames and easel. Before, I turned my colors turbid on the palette -- Now, every facet cuts my fingers with your presence.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems