Still-life

Will stay

 

but not fight

embarrassment

in the lewd sun.

 

Bring down infamous rain;

the fingernail and the boot.

 

I will sit here. Tender.

 

But a still-life is a dead thing.

I saw one sit and never breathe again.

 

I paint corpses,

apples and such,

 

and the red ones dance

like they were paid.

 

It’s all in the head.  They are dead.

And roll off the stage.

 

Feb 26

 

Vicky Curtin

Author: Vicky Curtin

I am a poet who paints and draws - originally from Auckland; now living in the Waikato.

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