Still Life

that still life painting
in the hallway irks me a little
with its confidence, its sense

of fulfillment, its dubious claim
that things can outrun the madness
and simply come to rest

on the wall next to the thermostat
the attic folding-stairs pull cord
dangles before it, a record of

movements court-martialed to a halt
illumination caught in the act
all brushed to a standstill, aloof

colors like subway strangers, everything
composed with a brushy carelessness
fronting a thumb-bumbled whimsy

of basket spills, lemons, tangerines
rolling all over the place, though somehow
settling to, actors in their places

staged in a frame, of the golden ratio
like a postcard from your cultured aunt
who’s accidents, even, seem a little elegant


The first six lines are lifted (and modified) from my piece ‘it’s still here’.

8 thoughts on “Still Life

  1. “staged in a frame, of the golden ratio
    like a postcard from your cultured aunt
    who’s accidents, even, seem a little elegant” the strength and beauty of these lines alone make me uneasy with joy. I want to laugh and stay sombre too. I wish I could write like this.

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