The first art
Was not art,
Rather, a color line shot through the dark,
No more expression
Than a plea for explanation.
The grandest monuments
And greatest terrible wars
Were all done for the sake
Of a loving God,
For a ready answer,
An easy mistake.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Check Mate’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
It’s been 6 months, 13 days and 4 hours since I last weighed myself. I hid the scales in a plastic bag under some books
Bending at the knees, Camilla crouched down to view the lipsticks on the lowest shelf of the drug store cosmetic aisle. The hem of her black dress grazed the linoleum floor as her fingers hovered over the edge of the shelf.
Your voice alights on my armhair, a whiff of cigar smoke— caramel, and ghostly— “Cities die; let them.” Black thing to say. I patter
