Eye Wash

stare

into the lens

of the painter's frame,

a woman lying in a bathtub.

Lovely. Now gently, ever so gently,

swap out the artist's eye with your own

and peel his open, peer into that tender zone

where white is not white but a chorus of colour,

watch your eye condense, run down the steamed walls

gathering pace through brick and yolk and sweet pink

bottlegreen, kelpgreen, daffodil, lilac, and cream;

each cone filled with a scoop of light. You see?

Time is also a kind of paint. It's sticky.

But in a moment, the light changes

the moment's over too quickly

as water mixes with oil

to keep your lens wet

you miss it,

blink