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Poetry
by Spencer Folkins
The River as Seen Past the Paintings
in Gallery 78, Fredericton
Dearest Molly,
Did you know when the drop first spilt from you that this was to be a fall you’d never return from, that you’d never fully land— but and stain the halls of whatever house an extension of your blood appeared in because the sun, Molly, couldn’t guide its beam around the ink-black veins you transcribed there—Bruno, have you ever seen a tree so black as to perhaps have been previously on fire—a self-perpetuating flow like the body seen clearly from the plastic-covered windows except instead not now not currently because I think if I wanted I could walk across it in a Canadian Jesus sort of way which I guess makes it more like a corpse but I won’t test it and was it the eye that first saw or the hand and which would you have cut off first if you were your idol was there any seeing at all or did you look inside yourself and tell what you saw there, the only language you knew how and did you know that it’s been four years now, Molly, and that the walls all have little tags with little letters and that it used to belong to an old doctor who was rich and but now the floors creak, we’ve asked that guests remove their shoes and so we give them slippers but I bet there’s no floors where you are did you know that the artist is immortal when the drop first spilt did you ever think of stopping or is it still a gift to grace the minds of strangers who thought they knew but didn’t
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[Distillate © HA&L + Spencer Folkins | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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