I do not care for Monet.
Edgeless, flowing, pastel dreams
Self-indulgent, mellifluous recreations
that hide the violence.
Missing the bent auberge, moldering walls,
and pockmarked streets.
But he was here breathing this night,
another night, lost somewhere
with lavender, rose, and baby blue.
My swollen heart longs the deepest purple.
I will the sun--Go down!
Turn this pastel coverlet, spin it fuchsia,
flaming orange where they hauled
Saint Joan to her pyre
and snuffed her with licking flames.
Monet saw pink and I cannot see what he saw,
How he felt, what he thought in this place,
heavy with creation's spores--
the ash of death lingering in the cobbles.
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