A Painter's Eye

you don't pretend to be an innovator—

no masterpieces will scrape by these hands—

but you still have a way about you with how

you glimpse the subtle detail of a shape

and curve it with your gaze like a caress.

they taught you color theory in school,

but the blues circle round the reds and yellows

till you're spun dizzy by this view of the world—

the fragments of a painting left unfinished.

but most of all you see yourself in the mirror,

this lopsided take, more sketch than final product,

your mouth a yawn of pink in the reflection

with your throat burrowing to black, a void.

soon enough you'll be turning strokes into reality,

your decisions spurring actions leading to consequences,

and someday you might see a rainbow in your stead—

just not today, not yet, since you're still a work in progress.

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