Dear Painter
scribbler of souls,

the well of your genius
I am an intruder.

But please
allow me to peek
for a while
into the intricacy
of your heart.

Your painting
has a significant turn
in which I lose my way.

It provokes me.
It dares me.
It incites me
to find that interlocking lens...

My stubborn directional sense
wants to crack your code
and shape it, maybe
into an unveiled verse.
It could end here.....

What was your intention
when you painted
this bride off center?

I wonder
was she your secret lover?
And in your tormented clash
with brut brushes
paints
and tints
with bent and gnarled fingers
you drew her
in a crooked line
to match
the location of your heart?

Dear Painter,
you declare
what I see
is an aberration.
The line I say is crooked
doesn't exist.
It's just a deviation
from my within.

Today
at the end of day
I wonder
if what I look at
is necessarily
what I see.

In the meantime
your painting
winks at me
and floods
in a sigh,
beyond its frame...