OCTOBER POEM

OCTOBER POEM

I wander the streets
shortly after dusk this
last day
of October

they think
I am an artist
    even though it is
a huge can not
of paint
     but of darkness
I am
carrying this evening
fine and broad strokes
my world
    my canvass yet
as it disappears doing
nothing to
dispel
   any spurious faith
in such enterprise, much
to the contrary
exploiting
their misconceptions
fostering every illusion

blindsiding colour, extinguishing
the light

       so much still to do
a whole tryptich of
forever never

reminding all
and sundry

there
is no final, no complete,
in art, with the imagination

are
     just different species

of the fiction
      that years for
ending

but
    eschews its
own energies of closure

life and death
got the mosaic
                      here

every fragment
priceless

until
    here at the hub
of antimony

I erase that
     palimpsest of palimpsest
might be
paimted,
    written over