Ingénue, or she went the light ekphrastic

and rejected every Rembrandt,

surrealist Salvador, 

even 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,

the only brittle

canvas she could use,

to see what lay

beyond her present

muse,

becoming her own

afflatus, stick people

hooking their hands—

like monkeys in a barrel,

page after page after page

as if the paper

could not end,

begging the pungent

farmers

to plant more bulbs,

pleading for us all

to bite our tongues—

every single word

a thousand pictures.

Andreas Gripp

April 15, 2025

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