The Artist Tells the Story Backwards

The sunrise was late again
over the expectant mouths
that talked in their sleep
to keep from being forgotten
even for a moment
We creep —
between shadows
we find monuments

We are tamers of the sublime

Everything is on the line
except our memories
Those are too precious
to break apart and accept ‘just fine’
You have to do them again— just right
It’s always been this way

We time the rays
as they race around the world
We take time to break bread
In straight lines we build houses
Streets laid for poets are painted instead

The portraitist turns the mirror
to see over his shoulder

The sun sets again
The street gets colder

We are only getting older
as we notice
that we all started to look like each-other
Someone promised you
it wouldn’t be this way
You called them ‘darling’
and they didn’t call your bluff

You spot yourself
between the brushstrokes of a postcard
You remember that day out
somewhat fonder now
The vivid paint transforms —
The artist tells the story backwards

Turn back the clock on it, then
Do it again — better — present tense
Do it with spirit
Until it makes sense

Now the sky is grey with fog
that hugs earth from pole to pole
You wake up in a snow globe
and there’s nowhere else to be —

Nowhere else to go

It’s sort of intimate, you think
What a strange marriage