Unmoored (for a Dutch Painter)
I stood in front of it for what felt like hours.
Blue on yellow,
smears of maybe.
Color bruised into beauty.
Unblushing light,
full of purpose
and spite.
Not storm, not ocean, not mood.
Just a tremble at the edge.
I stared,
transfixed by an ocean of indifference,
blinking stars fading
into dawn.
I made my peace,
but it was only a piece
of some incomplete puzzle.
Severed moments,
split by grief,
refracting a fraction
of truth.
I wanted to explain it.
Wanted it to be about something.
But maybe that’s the problem,
this need for narrative.
Resist the illusion
of understanding.
No one reads anyway.