You don’t paint your canvas,
around their corners,
fabric stains unadorned,
cut the periphery of your wailing paint.
You’re so saint,
we drink our wine,
and consider the colours, textures,
and brush you choose.
A small wait refreshes the observation,
being careful, not to see,
the incidental face portrait of tortures
thespian tangled, in the weave of Smith’s nuance.
Gordon finds random compositions,
beyond his ability to see,
we wait in the gallery,
in a storm of early snow.
We need better snow tires
on the Camaro.
Poetry is not always in motion.
Note for you: opening night for Gordon Smith, exquisite painter, at Equinox Gallery 2016