Probability
For Ken Kirkby
We walked toward the painter who sat by the side
of the road and we heard his whisper.
I’ve sung the song of colors I’ve sung pastels and ochre
the chiaroscuro and the oblique, the mesmerising and
the delightful shades: opposite the gross my armory is
the tip of my eternal brush. Nothing of what they have
can hurt me neither arrows can pierce my heart nor bad
word blacken my aura nor evil sight blemish my innocence.
I’ve sung, I’ve stayed diaphanous, people’s tongues
can’t spoil me and in the hands of gross I am but a bad
loot. Chirps of birds I’ve painted, women’s skin I’ve
touched, on the humble table I enjoyed my food, my brush
wealth is reverently laid by the feet of the Eternal.
Nothing of me remains but the softest mist over
the void until I shall return a raindrop to moist roots
of grain, to enter a man’s sperm, to will my rebirth.
Your eyes stop at the turn of the road through mine
see far in my past, further into my future: one fruit,
one flower, a newborn to the next virgin who will
bear me.
I’ve sung, his whisper freed his thought turning probability
into possibility and the rind turned into the heart of a fruit
that was baptized man.