The Artist as Lord of Creation
Her mind a jumble of brides
And bridges, a bird as green
As her cheek, flush with moonlight.The city with everything where she paints it,
Nothing where it wants to be.Her almond eyes and purple smoking-coat,
The colors and brush on her palette
Sing our greatest fear, voice
What we least want to hear,
What thrills us most:We will get nothing we want.
We will get what she gives us
And like it.
Copyright © Jefferson Adams, 1999. All Rights Reserved.