If Cezanne painted you, what village would you be?
What pair of Monet’s haystacks, soft,
And glistening in sunlit serenity?
To me, too close, you are a crosshatch, crossed
With empty diamonds and abrasive lines,
A certain blotchey rosacea of the soul
Yanking your kite-string down from the divine;
From the eternal you wither into the small.
Here is where we meet, knees beneath the table,
The traffic staticy, the world unstable
That goes zagging through the fog beyond us.
In our discussion’s no accordance–
We’re as different as figs, as cracks
In the Old Masters, two needles in the haystack.