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.
I really enjoy the imagery in your poem. “talents curling off lips” and ‘his last breath twister[ing] up into the sky”. You’re using circular imagery, which I think matches perfect with the idea of time and watches. GREAT. It seems to me like you’re conveying a little bit of elegance to a haphazard, seemingly hopeless, life history to this. I don’t think it’s a brain fart! I think it just needs to be expanded. For instance, even though you only mentioned this man’s brother once, you it seems to be what his suffering is encompassing. Maybe give a little bit of a backstory on his brother?
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