Like a Vermeer room, this room holds in measure

the evaporating light the sundial has notched up,

the glow that shifts from hour to hour on the white wall,

charting its orbit in the grain of the paint.

The shadow that stubbles the edge of the door

must be shaved.

The thin flame is my first witness:

reaching for torches

that toss like meteors on an idle breeze,

I carve shrewd emblems from rustling prayers

and seal the folded page by the formal light

of the thicker flame.

Wax on a word.

A hissing idea

flickers on a jade bowl,

three porcelain crucibles

and the copper bodies of pens.

And like a withdrawn star

or fitful emphasis, a frosted bell jar

throbs with nimble, nervous lightning.

Through hard words and praise,

legends erased and rephrased in the dark,

they keep their secrets inviolate.

III

ARCHIPELAGO

Philip Guston, in (Pretty Much) His Own Words

A Triptych

1. Lecture

The hell with art, I said, and went through the mirror.

You couldn’t catch me for two years.

The paw that drew the first line, that’s what I was after.

Somewhere in Egypt or Ur. The Ur-line might have sprung

some magic grip over bison or deer. For here, for now,

you may want to take up these charred bones and follow.

So what else is there to work with? Black?

You can take it out with white.

Then you splash the mud over here. The window falls.

You can strap a wristwatch on that guy

who’s got a little blood on his sleeve already.

So much you want to do with pencil and eraser

because you want to be spent, to finish and sleep well,

maybe even go to a movie. But finishing is death.

Which reminds me: Am I being paid for my silence?

I should remember that because everything I say is a concert.

2. Studio Visit

A book can become a tablet can become a stone.

This lime skin is the binder.

But you want the name and the thing.

And you want the movement.

This is about painting a book in the dark, to read

when you walk blind into a curtained room.

Grab that paw and feel its pulpiness.

It’s not just a noun, not just recognition.

It’s a lamp. It’s a clock. Not just one brick on top of another.

The process is a trial and plenty of error:

a ball and splinters of grainy wood lined up on a table

and then some, and then some more.

When I get to the red head of that thing at the end

of the line, it’s going to feel like a trunk

and I’m going to want to pull it out,

pull it longer and longer.

That’s when they’ll come and look at me in my cage,

where I’m sitting and carving

a flecked rectangle of sky to look

like a book.