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The wholeness of it,
on this morning of sea calm,
in autumnal sunlight, the mellow
slanted spots a-glitter.
You want with your stare
to simply match its own
that is a pointed knife
and a distended blade.
You want to open a gash
into it and taste the harsh
quiet skin, the salt in its hush.
When touched it reveals
the electric burst
of an eel's heart.
But the wholeness.
A fist hardly retaining
the sparks of its hues.
The painter you are not
knows he should
stand in it, stand
until his last breath
with the brush of his soul.
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