Rosso, after a long deferral, hung me out to dry.
‘Life in these verses resembles an elaborate ritual or game,’
he said, again.
My breath was hot and something was missing.
I didn’t know what I’d do without him.
Outside the sun had started setting, and I’d never seen
anything quite like it.
‘This will have to do,’ I replied,
realizing that fire alarms and smoke detectors
are the same thing,
‘for the time being’.
Rosso did an expression he had often
found in the paintings of Dutch masters,
like a confession. Giv’er a kiss from me,
he one morning said fast. ‘Sit still,’
The Rijksmuseum stands like a red dress,
a painting of paint close up. ‘It’ll get alright
in the end,
given time’. He might have acted out
that portrait on the wall