The Living Need Light, the Dead Need Music

Trey Moody

Having opened your book about Egon Schiele

(your apartment, alone, late morning, green tea)

I stare at his rough lines in order to understand

your mind, in order to know exactly what you know

and what you don’t: the dishes done, the orchid very close

to death, my crossed feet anchoring the coffee table,

the bedsheets still ruffled though mostly covering

the bed. Somewhere along these seasonal streets

you lead your children on bike to the park whose waterfall

I’ve never seen, while here the miniature big top remains

unmoved, heavy, its open flap framing a small mess of toys

so still they’re speaking. I’ve long thought I knew about love

most everything, but water will mimic the shape

of its container, and the painting, no matter the subject,

is always only about the self. Later, when we regard

your soon-to-bloom peonies from separate vantages,

in one mind (calm, clear, watching for highway carrion)

a countered ant maps a path only the other mind can follow.

          — the title is taken from the synonymously named short film by The Propeller Group.


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