It's an understatement, to say 
that I've studied your colors of soul.  
Flawless imperfections
flowing from one image to
               the liquid next.  
I pick them up, my postcard replicas, 
from the small easel where they wait.  
I shuffle through the shadows, through 
the strokes, to the zeal of child's play,
to the calm of washed sea 
crossbreeding with sky.
Face cards, extensions, of you.  
That grin, impulsive little boy eyes, inside 
a man.  I'm looking at them now, your 
watercolor dreams, 
and I see wide and far around me, 
peripheral visions still 
wet on the pad.  
My soul's eye travels the places your 
hand has swept, with dark on its brush, 
with coral sands. The nulls where passion 
is born from omission, by silence with voids
of white, by spaces of colorless, tasteless air.  
            When your brush was full,
     when its throat was rasping dry;
I saw your cloudless blue, your 
mountains, your wooden boats.
The tongues of ticklish, red iris 
plicata.  My eyes trail the 
page, the tracings, the refuge of 
a corner of your conciousness.  
Your art is beautiful; your world.  
It would be an understatement, 
to say it in French or shape it 
by hand in sign. 
   It would be an understatement, 
to say that I'm falling into you, 
into your world.  When I know.
That I already have.


14 june 01
M Madison