A place pressed anonymously in a small gilt frame — an un-housed painting, like the artist’s still brush, or the stark canvas, too naked, too white. The hand’s left grasping for leaves from last year’s garden — where faint ideas, and the pause between gestures, remain like a van Gogh still-life. The storybook window is seen from the empty street, not from within — where on amaranthine days carnivals of pleasure are held beneath a burning candelabra that lights a pink room filled with harp and flute music — And laughter, not being for sale, is given away like secrets. — TIMOTHY RESAU
Timothy Resau is from Baltimore, Maryland. His prose and poetry have recently appeared in Abstract Magazine TV, Soul-Lit, and Anti-Heroin Chic, among others, and is forthcoming in Origami Press and Poetica. Visit his site at www.words-by-tim.com.