A man,
or what remains of one,
sits in a chair,
antique, overstained,
and above him,
slowly lowering themselves,
two breasts
coming to rest,
an arm wrapping around,
dipping a brush into a palette
and mixing black with black,
a black becoming blacker,
the void, expanding,
and the man,
shifting,
clearing his throat,
looking up at the woman,
at the empty cloth,
at the mixing colors,
at a world beyond view,
one where lovers
don’t play roles of
student and teacher,
man and woman,
and with this heavy thought
he slipped from the chair
to the plank wooden floor
and no one,
no large-breasted woman,
no voice from the clouds,
no levity from the gods of Earth,
stopping him
from submerging into the other-than,
the space beyond the painted world.

02/24/2017

Posted on 02/24/2017
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