Sous Rature


Maria Williams-Russell               


After Spencer Finch's "What Time is it on the Sun"



CIE 529/418 (candlelight)

A roll of trucks curse by. Under my lids,
the color orange-lime. My mother’d pull
the curtains wide.  Trumpets of light.
Some days the wind drew in the cat calls. 

I liked the smell of night, the flitting, the repeating
sighs still lingering on the pillow.  The stain
of morning widening inside the cathedral.
Lack of shiver, exhalation
for grace.

                                                                                                           Peripheral Error(After Moritake) Cymothoe Coccinata

Red, yellow, and green stained glass panes.                                                                                       
                                                                                                           Here                                                                                                   butterflies


                                                                                                           (I believe they are butterflies)
                                                                                                           (brightly colored dust dragons)
                                                                                                                      butterflies, I believe)
                                                                                                           (bursts of ghost)


                                                                                                           Watercolor on paper.


                                                         Composition in Red and Green

                                                         Apples fall and not so far.  What happens when we cannot bear
                                                         fruit? A boy crouches on the wall watching apples
                                                         fall and not so far. What happens when

                                                         desire cannot bear fruit, when red has no use
                                                         but to contrast green?  A boy crouches. Apples fall.
                                                         What happens (if I cannot) being so far

                                                         from the tree? A round cheek. The soft thud. He is counting,
                                                         crouching on the wall watching fruit bear the fall. And then,
                                                         his mother calls.


                                                         Apples, carpet, wood, Plexiglas, and motor. Dimensions: variable.