P is eyes still look out at me.
One day years ago in Aix, young son in my arms,
other in hand, as we walked by the table,
Only years later I realized who'd looked so intently.
was like a rock, a bald ball
of complex concentration. Did he ever fall,
fail, feel stupid? Was it all
No. He painted pictures
of a dislocatedness, lived in its fiction,
had no art apart from that distraction.
View, 2_4 (Summer 1998)