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| Two Painters Painting From a treat |
To Christophe Cherel
249__As I rode into Trinquetaille
near Arles
in a black Toyota from hood to trunk shining stealth and shy
drove-thru right into the ancient cemetery
where the Alycamps cry
then stopped the car in a dark alley
and hold out the key
to a parking-valet named Carl.
I saw two painters painting from a tree.
They were panting sketching the sky
that breathed lightly gauging its stars nightly,
their outlines, their folds, their layout and harl,
and that didn't bother me.
Two painters painting from a tree
in the branches panting over the bronchi
of the arlaten society.
Short loud puffs from their pipes were heard free,
inspiration from their respiratory tract was in free-fall,
it was an eye for an ear, an ear for an eye
as always it is in Arles,
that didn't bother me at all.
Two painters were painting from a tree.
No time left to go to the brothel, no use to make a creole love-call.
As I thought to go back to my car to return home
on the double and fly
I realised I was climbing up a tree and its leafy dome
and that didn't bother me.
The tree was tall,
a heavy drip of oil fell on my face hairy
and began to take its toll;
it would take minutes before I'd reach the vantage point and have a chance to dry,
that didn`t bother them two painters at all.
