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
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.