My Father, The Painter

 

 

My father’s hands smell of pine forests:

Rich, raw and resinous.

His face is a summer thunderstorm,

Dark as cumulus.

He smokes a dishevelled cigarette

And stares, untalking, at the canvas:

A polychrome miasma

Of turpentine scrubbed pigment;

An angry whorl

Where once there was language.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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