The inextricable

by Christos Polydorou


I found my way back. I usually do,
it is what I do best. I am a master
of getting lost, and coming back.
I disappear for a few minutes and
then I return. I watch days burn
and nights roll out their silver
carpets. I watch birds fly over
my head, why, just this morning
I saw a raven just above my head
from my third floor window
carrying half a sugared donut
in its beak, that’s how close
it came. I don’t know, or I know
or I have know, or I am not sure,
or I am terribly certain, and I
am all these things at once
and I am none of them, but
in all states of being, whether
they are states of undress
or of marble and nakedness,
I am expecting something. I
am filled with anticipation.
That something wonderful
is going to occur. And not
only that, I will get to enjoy
it, in a way that, perhaps,
I did not get to enjoy these
past few years, because of
a sea of sadness that washed
over me when I was just
another painter lost and found
in the hills of Southern Italy,
hunting for some blue
to extract, the inextricable. It
will never be perfect, but it
will be something. Azzurro.

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