Les Montres Molles, 1968. (His Last Painting.)
We met at the edge of time. His talents curled
off his lips melting drops of water, shadowing
reflections of his dead brother. Wild-eyed,
he explained his theories of pocket watches
and expanding landscapes, as if I understood
their luxuries.
He was 84 as I watched his last breath
twister up into the sky, drawing shattered
pieces of him and his father's relationship.
Unforgiving, he decayed, a fly ate away time
that his father never cared for. A lonely moth he sat
edging away from his art.
BLEh... brain fart
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