You think you might
tell the hoary details of how
it all comes about.
The slide of sweat, so sweet, pummeling
the door where your pencil knocks once;
twice and no one ever answers.
But look at the light in the painting, hanging
ingloriously on the hallway wall, forgotten
and invisible by all who pass.
And the old man who is alone
with his work waiting for the door
to one day open
toward an infinity so nameless
as to be the place
where inspiration blooms
like the fragile, persistent rose.
Details long forgotten
in the blood of the moment;
the sweat from petals to pen.
