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I’m looking at the bowl of oranges
Hand fastened onto brush, brush onto canvas
And the canvas is empty, it’s weird how
Like sand through fingers,
Every shadow, every indent
Escapes me
How something so still, can be so elusive
It’s still a mystery to me.


I’m looking at the man lying in off-white hospital bed sheets
My hand is grasping his hand, and his hand is on his chest
What’s inside there is silent, it’s weird how
They say death makes faces honest
But I’m looking at him
Every shadow, every indent
I was only inches away
But it felt like
Opposite sides of the Berlin wall
How something so still, can be so elusive
It’s still a mystery to me.

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