Using the broad edge to smooth

the paint across the canvas while dragging

a bulge before it and lifting

and dropping and pulling quick strokes,

I wish I could paint my love.

Life is unwoven before you live it.

The canvas is not blank.

It is not there.

God’s thought is paint.

God take the brush — levitating, swirling like a wand.

I am dizzy with your paint, pigment blended — 

peach, brown, yellow, white, pink — forming flesh 

which is tender wrapping for short years drowned

with love too deep to be drunk dry during life.

I wash my car back to blue, keep the sprawling lawn green

and polish my skin with love like water.

Use the water to blend shades, create shadow, glare, union.

Two colorful bodies of God’s dreaming and this love and the brush — sown wind,

create canvas from paint.