PENTIMENTO

      the mass-produced

      painting of a field

      in winter hanging

      above the bed

      in this west oakland

      motel room starts moving

      on its own inside

      the faux gold frame.

      it begins as always

      with whiteness swallowing

      the rest of the painting

      in its dumb bloodslit

      hunger. then as always

      a pulse of the backlit

      blue veins rising up

      like abrasions on a pale

      boy’s back. followed

      by the inevitable red

      riven out the snow bank

      taking the shape

      of a scythe or sieve

      or finally a boy or the shape

      of a boy growing antlers

      or the shape of antlers

      wherever his hands

      are meant to be now.

      but they’re impossible

      to see in all the movement.

      impossible to move

      his hands & you have

      to wonder how a boy

      or the shape of a boy

      wound up here

      in this unstable field.

      if only i knew the history

      of art i could give you

      more than the color

      of the thing. i could tell

      exactly what school

      this painting’s in. i could

      use the painter’s biography

      to make sense of it

      his fucked head & terrible

      terrible life. i could use

      expensive words to make

      these bizarre gestures

      tenable. i wonder

      if every one of these

      reprints is moving

      in the same fashion?

      or is it just this one

      staring upside down

      at a boy on his back

      on a filthy white blanket

      while the shape

      of a strange man moves

      in unspeakable ways

      over my body.