pablo picasso/ his ghost, anyway
You are the paint in the sink, yearning
for water. You are my palette, speckled
with too much red. You are the 5 year
old realizing that trees are not lollipops.
You are the paint can full of paintbrushes.
You are the poster declaring Pablo Picasso
to be the only genus left in art. That
makes you think he is still alive. You are
his fingers running over the wall and taking
the color from the knobby paint into your
fingertips. You are his eyes skimming over
a room and leeching all the shapes away
from the people and creating something
newer colder stranger brighter in their place.