-including certain observations-

1.

I am not now, nor have I ever been a professional painter of pictures.

having said that, I have painted a few pictures in my time,

and some were actually palatable to the naked eye.

a few might remember: “Novitiate at her Bath” called:

the “Nun Painting” by its admirers, whereabouts unknown,

now lost to history.

also, there's the little Chardin wannabe: “Items on a Table”

immortalized in a poem addressed to long past love, Isabella Howsenauer

and is assumed to be in Howsenauer's possession, and considered lost.

2.

I want it.
I want the lost little Chardin wannabe.

I want the lost “Nun” painting, too.

I want all my lost stuff.

I want to gather all of it in my arms

like Vincent was gathered by Paul,

like Jesus gathered the other Paul,

like John gathered his own Paul while skiffling at the Woolton fête.

I want to sleep with my stuff lost to the aether,

to smell the crooked paint of it,–– unfurl
the rolls with their hairline cracks at my loins.

they're every woman I’ve ever known or dreamed of,

living or dead;

It'd be like sleeping inside the Pleiades, all seven of them;

young and burning with a new kind of fire.

3.

Ah! but for the stars, I’m too old for any of it, and don't you see?

I'm soon to be lost to history myself, don't you know.