When the top half is already taken over by the hollow
of whiteness and tonal things tried-to-do texturely,
the begging canvas needs your hands all over it,
rough lover of the fabric so-and-sos. Compulsion
is the key word in all of this tousle-bouting. As in
I’m going to beat my hands into you, over and over,
the yellows forming, the blues foaming up in your cheeks,
I’m going to ruin the space that needs fulfillment.
