Thursday, January 22, 2015

There's always a wasp

There’s always a wasp in the room when I paint,
single, singular, muttering, dissatisfied,
just out of reach above me.

I know it at once
if it touches my hair
with its stinger held bent
—flies are quicker, bees more direct.

I watch it circle the light.
It always surprises,
always terrifies,
always pleases me.

I kill it when I can
but a little danger in the air
is welcome when the palette dries
and the brush clogs.

Art is a blood sport.


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