Paint remains on the canvas
Something about the pigment and brush connect one to
even the most detached people,
bodies long dead and bones in the ground.
As I stand in the studio, hand poised over my gray canvas,
a painting by an old Italian man illuminated in front of me, the wash
of the warm light and the oil-dipped grisaille make me think of
every forgotten artist who built the world from its cave-painted roots.