I could never be sure
whether or not it was me
being captured on the canvas.
I couldn't feel safe
even from the sea-scape
or the sleeping dog
or the abstract piece
where the colors bled into one another
and indiscriminate shapes
railed against the eyes.
I'd ask myself,
what did I do to her
that the waves slap
so wild against the rocks.
And when did I inspire
the mangy dog,
curled up on its grubby rug,
oblivious to the world.
And what is it of me
that so exceeds the literal
that any attempt at expressing it
explodes into a violent randomness.
She'd bring each new work to me,
ask, "What do you think of this?"
I never knew whether to answer "great"
or "sorry."
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