Four pieces of wood, single and lonesome
connect themselves at each end,
clothed in stretched, milky white canvas -
become parents to my obscure vision
of an unknown place where red makes love to green
and Monet sits on a burnt umber hill against the horizon,
laughing as I tickle him with the damp hairs of my wand.
He tells me to find him fresh water lilies, proclaiming
his obsession for the pigment of my eyes
that swirls in shades of cobalt blue cerulean,
creating waves to wash away his urgency
and blotting acrylic over him with a single stroke -
placing myself on the hill against the horizon
to form the perfect transparent image.
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