Studio

My paintings
are erotic gardens,
overgrown with
winter trees,
limbs contorted
toward the skies
that rinse their hues
through
shadow-laden
light—

Still lifes
contrived with props
that form
deceptive depths
and shallows—

Cityscapes
swirling
in a blur
of colored lights—
brilliant,
lambent,
burning out—

Interiors
tinted with
morning glaze
that leaks through
unfamiliar
windows—

Abstracts
wet with
rhythmic joy—
later to be
smeared
with tears,

Bare canvas—
slit with
peering cuts like
half-closed eyes,
admitting light
and partial
sight—

with no attempt
to beautify,
or to belie,
they are
a manifold
self-portrait,
ill-disguised.