Brush Strokes
Brush strokes
The sky this afternoon had odd clouds
looked like icebergs floating on pink air
The seagulls took refuge on my terrace.
A grey wolf with a leg of lamb scratched
on the door, I let it in.
when preparing the meat, the wolf left
down the hall that was dimly lit
I asked no question
I remembered a Russian painter of black forests
and dark red sky I think he was foresighted
therefore, sent to a Gulag.
The sea in the bay is dark with white spots
the Russian has gone mad, was his name Kozlovski?
Back in the hall where the wolf had disappeared
left a pile of dung as proof, in case, I thought
it was a dream.
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