Antoni Tapies, “Grand Noir”


 He made you out of marble dust but He

gashed your belly like a scratch-and-win

so you wouldn’t be beautiful, or familiar.

The crater of canvas He left you

sprouted freckles,

delicately perched like my wayfarers

in a pile of mud before a football game.

Your God has never been to my stadium

as far as I know, or worn wayfarers and

neither have you.

Yet you walk down my street and

you drink with my friends on a Saturday,

wearing nice pants and glasses that you drop

right here, in front of my eyes.

Michelle DeLong


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