He knows what’s there
before it is
A seer
Not brushes but hands
and fingers
Each colour speaks –
a language he can read aloud
He moves shape together
and shifts something
as intangible as cloud
It is mercurial –
abstruse, like time,
both deliberate and imprecise
at once
When he is finished, he
stands back – peels himself
away from the canvas
Beer spills
from the neck of
his clutched bottle and
beads down his fingers,
warm by the time it
reaches his wrist
The tongue races to catch it,
tasting only its colour
On the fridge door,
a rogue fingerprint
of yellow.
ataraxicat 