A poem by Maryland resident Linda Pastan:
Vermillion
Pierre Bonnard would enter
the museum with a tube of paint
in his pocket and a sable brush.
Then violating the sanctity
of one of his own frames
he’d add a stroke of vermilion
to the skin of a flower.
Just so I stopped you
at the door this morning
and licking my index finger, removed
an invisible crumb
from your vermilion mouth. As if
at the ritual moment of departure
I had to show you still belonged to me.
As if revision were
the purest form of love.
A lovely poem, David. But as I was reading, I wondered what there was about it that made you include it in your blog. LC would find the lines quite acceptable, lyrically.
A very simple reason. I saw it that day, enjoyed it and posted it.