End of the Avant Garde
Once I asked ghosts
not to haunt me.
I made a deal, I would stop
being a ghost
that haunts others, too.
“Let’s let each other be,” I said
but they haven’t answered, yet.
Their faces do talk flowers
as some distant drip-lined
painting–no, not Monet,
someone wetter.
In the meantime, I let mouths
carnations fill sour like citrus, watch
sun cross balcony,
Barnett Newman light-lines
cross mahogany floor
left to right,
left to right in slants
while a man outside
hurriedly gusts out
breaths of a cigarette,
then walks
across the railroad tracks.
