A Room for a Still Life
by John Martin Finlay
Delicate stalks meander through blue silk
Rootlessly and float blooms white as milk
Upon the sofa's green. The polished floor
Reflects the island of the room the more
Pelagic light pours through a wall of glass.
Some books of images are stacked en masse
Beside an open clock. Light thickens now;
The colors change; a copper gold some how
Like acid etches things, an unseen knife.
The cliffs of vividness, mortal still life.
The modish woman lifts her head to face
The god across the room. A circle base
Supports his damaged body, rods connect
His shattered thighs; each part is flecked
With minute stain. But yet the pieces hold,
Become themselves pure art, imagined mold
In her acute though cool aesthetic mind.
It is the fragment, something not defined
But felt through nerves outside the whole,
Which satisfies and gives her mind its sole
And isolated act these days. Time seems
The kind of autumn light one sees in dreams,
Which floods a fictive object she had made,
Which floods her too against a wider shade.