She went
the light
ekphrastic:
not of Rembrandt
or surrealist
Dali, Warhol’s
tomato soup,
had no stomach
for van Gogh’s
ear, Pollock
a breaded fish;
knowing Picasso
had no rhythm,
da Vinci
without a rhyme,
while her solitary
Rockwell: I always
feel like
Somebody’s
Watchin’ Me
as she pushed her
4B pencil
into the thin of
onion skin,
became her own
inspiration,
stick people
galore, joining
their fingerless
“hands”—
page after page after page,
told the farmers
to plant more
bulbs, every single word
a thousand pictures.
Andreas Gripp
September 16, 2024
RF Image
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