If the brushstroke embodies representation,
let this drop of paint be the thin membrane
between being and seeing. Let the exact gray
of my eyes become nothing more than gauze
through which I see the canvas, darkly. She
said show me the exact yellow of light,
and I said, I don’t paint that shit. I said
every canvas is a self-portrait, every
drop of paint is a whiff of the world
that can’t be unmade. I am painting
the world in my image, one giant white
mistake at a time. I said, stand back.
Look at this.