The Joy of Life
after Henri Matisse

i.

Remember how
we were supposed to be

serpentine

figures lounging under
the boughs spread open
like curtains

informal nameless

subjects gallivanting
about

in an imaginary Arcadian
meadow

how we could have

undressed
and reposed
in a field of
unnatural yellow

no pressure

and no such thing
as time

just the sound of a flute

enveloping
a central ring
of dancers

it would have been nice

to lack
individuation

and be completely
nothing
inside

it could have been us

we could have never
left the idyll

ii.

Everyone here’s
a stranger

I’m observing

the environment
through a filter

of unrestricted color

and flattened
pictorial space

I thought we’d re-enact

mythology together

sleep in yellow grass
that lacks perspective

the primer’s been left
visible
in some places

do you notice the edge

of what’s
impossible

the abrupt ruptures

of scale
make no sense

there’s no depth

to the ideal

we must accept

a certain
level of deception

iii.

We could link arms

and promenade

along the demolished
remains

of an anonymous
urban center

I could turn to you

and ask what you think
about circular economies

whether you believe in
octopian intelligence

if every poem
is a kind of springing

rebirth

and there’s no yesterday

no past
which we know

is never-ending

but let’s not go

to infinite regress

let’s say it’s just a glitch

and we found
the north-facing slopes

of coastal redwood forests

where sunlight is softer

existing in a state
of how we imagined
each other

two rowers advancing
toward sunset
in a perfect synchronicity

the misty air

totally free

of mindfuck

iv.

Do you ever wonder

what it’s like

to live your whole life

staring into the sun

among collective

anatomical distortions

this is a real place

adjacent to a Picasso

collage woven into

a shimmering tapestry

in a small white room

removed from the outside

populous

piling into express elevators

undifferentiated workers

among workers

among clouds

reflected in

skyscraper windows

v.

And I would make
the same choices
on autopilot

renounce nothing
of the world
shrinking
into a cliff
and I was
the fool
in the
Rider-Waite tarot
deck
about to walk
right off the edge

blissfully

unprepared to hit
the bottom
of the gorge

not living my life
but watching it
pulsate

through a diluted
layer of pigment

desire applied
as a thin wash

she abandons
the hallucination

unfinished

and I am the one
who waits

to start over