by Martin Seay
He’ll talk to the girl in the orange knit cap, standing by the Veronese. He won’t look at her at first. He’ll flip to a fresh page in his sketchbook, he’ll glide across the room—his eyes fixed on the painting, drifting close to her, but not too close—and after a moment, he’ll begin to draw.
by G. C. Waldrep
At the singing someone handed me a pear and said
“Feed it.” There was a little mouth drawn on the flank
of the pear, but no nose, no eyes, no ears.
I had no idea what a pear would eat.
I tried carrot sticks. I tried a packet of sugar
from the fellowship hall. The pear remained oblique . . .
by Melanie Carter
Was I drawn by the promise
of painted roses? Or by the moon, dangling
from the ceiling on its invisible wire?
by Billy Collins
Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
the day you were born and New Year’s Day—
a droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen . . .
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