Hockney at Bellevue
There’s all kinds of ways to
enter one of
Hockney’s pools,
to part the cerulean acrylic,
become California,
no longer dream young men
in radiant absence but
engage perfections of skin
and promise of
love eternal’s blank comfort,
including this way, in winter
3,000 miles away and
over a sludge of feta and
fries,
indistinct life's landscape
not thrilled with
its inability to be simply
necessary (without
a pallid cuisine of industrial
vistas, no inside, no
hospital, no chance to see
humanity restored by
experts reconstructing
pools of human flesh).
__________
Sarah Sarai, pub. in
Parthenon West Review, 2010.
