In the painting of the pear
I saw four years of wanting
to bite
laid out before a dish.
Behind us, a cello
bound together Renoir
and Rembrandt
Waterhouse and O'Keefe.
We walked through Japan
and crinoline cages to Greece.
In Egypt,
we looked away from the dead
and spoke
around the edges of our weight.
I insisted I was a Monet.
You placed me, bold, in a Van Gogh.
But what I did not share
was you,
caught and reflected
between the pear
and the cello
on glass,
and that I studied you,
in relief,
as art.

11/11/2004

Posted on 11/11/2004
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