Gray dawn, yellow lamplight amidst trees, burrows. A single racoon, loping form half-seen, bounding from one storm drain to the next...
Or Paris, hidden as she was in the name Pissarro. Or Walcott, perhaps--in Charlotte Amalie, the palmy heat and stone dry fields, sun and cobalt seas... But no, a quiet fog, enveloping, gas lamps and horses' backs, spectral in the mist. Almost unknown, yet light, so light--the brush, the grays--a single truth... Or fleeting reason, made immediate...
Camille...
No comments:
Post a Comment