For Jim Canary

Botticelli did it. Tintoretto did it. Poussin did it. Trainspotting. Red silk all over the place. I see you see me. Thy hand in mine. Thine eyes dipped in color. Scrolling. Rolling. “Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?” Botticelli had it. Tintoretto had it. Poussin had it. I snatch your red book. You want it back. The dictionary reminds us: memento mori, while we lament: so what, then what? Time bound. Ditch the clock. Let color rule. You have numbers on your chest. I inhale, you exhale. Your hand be-gloved. I beg. “The world would never find peace until men fell at their women’s feet and asked for forgiveness.” Inverse order. Your gaze in mine, unbound. The train makes a sound. Botticelli knew it. Tintoretto knew it. Poussin knew it.


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