The Bard

Four ceramic panels

the color of bone and the 

height of a man

stretch, walls of a 

finite page

story with an end but no

beginning.

A length of wood benched 

between stone-backed 

pillars

lifts up a canvas

with a picture but no

words.

Beckoning painting of myth

or history or

direction

scribed in images of 

blues and browns and 

earth. 

I’ve neither brush 

nor sight. 

My flame evades me

lights corners of 

pages, empty,

thoughtless. If only I could 

paint you 

a landscape. 

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