Sequestrienne

Don't look at me for answers. Who am I but a sobriquet, a teeth-grinder, grinder of color, and vanishing point? There was a time of middle distance, unforgettable, a sort of lace-cut flame-green filament to ravish my skin-tight eyes. I take that back— it was forgettable but not entirely if you consider my heavenly bodies . . . I loved them so. Heaven's motes sift to salt-white—paint is ground to silence; and I, I am bound, unquiet, a shade of blue in the studio. If it isn't too late let me waste one day away from my history. Let me see without looking inside at broken glass.