after Williams’ “A Woman in Front of a Bank”
It’s not her fault my mind scoops
parabolas out of the curves of her waist
into arbitrary evocations—
snakes out of a can—racing to the edges
of boxes everywhere,
the field still a rectangle even if wildflowers
choke the scene of any semblance of order.
I can only squelch the urge to sneeze
to spew to surge to seed, gripping the line
like a lasso, but she doesn’t move,
and who knows what she sees,
in front of me.
Could be? Jackson’s tears
coursing like rain
down our screens
under the common umbrella,
an open and shut gallery.
And there you have it:
a woman in front of a Pollock.
The Mockingbird Sings 