The day after Matisse died,
he was walking through a park
and for the first time he saw
what the human body looks like.
He saw the space that pressed in
upon the head, the gaze that turned
toward him, and passed.
That night he told Alberto, who nodded,
said it was true, and therefore
impossible, and as he spoke he scratched
a pencil across the paper napkin in front of him
until there was a head, a man walking,
and the space crowding in around this man.
You see it is so simple, Alberto said,
but it cannot be done.
Others arrived, drank, told stories.
He knew a joke that amused them all.
Later they talked about Matisse.
When he left a man hurried by
in the rainy street. He looked
but there was nothing to see-
nothing but a man turning a corner,
a woman leaning in a doorway
lighting a cigarette,
the brief glow of her match, smoke
rising among the dark buildings.
There was only a street.
He felt the weight of his own body,
and then a specific sadness
out of which he knew quite clearly-
nothing could be made.
Leave a Reply