Amedeo Modigliani, Painter, 1884-1920
When I close my eyes I see
I’ll watch a stormfront moving in
The downpour and even the rainbow
Like the tang of aftertaste.
But it is pain
Regret and redemption.
An outburst of lightning that
Sears my retinas and evaporates
In the miracle of hands,
The hip’s parabola, swaying in the wind.
My eyelids have a different story:
Looking, longing, lasting
Tasting, telling, taking
Demanding, deciding, denying
…………………………The toppling ghost of visage.
Without fear into the dark sepia tones of patterns and remembrance.
Shapes without form
The quagmire of identity and softening pastel lines
Watching without patience
Watching without seeing
Watching without time.
My lines belie
The supple touch of finger
But validate the rain of light
Which does not fall, but flies
Like infinite arrows to all apparent targets.
Ricochets are warm wading pools beveling
The sharp edge of the soft machine.
Unlike the clouds
I can arrest
Their eyes, their mouths, their chattering fingers.
In this flattened atmosphere
I can stop the rain.
-Bret Hamilton, Part of the song cycle, “Thoughtbrush”