The Fauves are visiting. Come to redesign
the patio, they have upstaged the heart.
They have brought with them their own music
and solemn gondoliers. Madame Fauve,
with a twisted braid, is dancing. So is
the decadence in the wall. I applaud
the thoroughness of the measurers
but I cannot sanction their pervasiveness.
The Fauves must leave: stat. I forgot I have
an appointment with deadness at 3 PM.
They say they understand, but I sense they don’t.
I have offended the sorcery of art. Ah, Art.
Ah, Liquidity. On the bulkhead of the horizon,
clouds collect, indifferently, like restaurant fish.
by Bill Yarrow
Editor’s Note: When color and imagery are more important than realism, poetry mirrors art. This poem suggests an emotional narrative with brief, surprising images. By the end, the reader understands something is broken within the narrator, but full interpretation is up for grabs.
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