To need. Yes. The trees swaying backwards and side
To side in the rain fuzz; the static air and the half-
Hearted darkness. To need. Opened a book once
About a North-American artist who mused upon
One woman with heavy auburn hair and a skin so
Translucent that she could never be called pretty.
Every portrait so acute; dry with autumn brown
And orange and black line twigs in snow or on
The forest floor. The twilight is coming. Sooner.
Further. The mess of mud on tyres on a long drive
Home after walking on the hills. The heater hum
And voices that blur to a peaceful warmth. Then.
The turpentine echo through printer rolls of paper
Stirred some sense no one else knew how profound
Each brushstroke, the sketches at work, tying her
Long hair into a plait of every multicolour strand,
The slight shadow of texture on the page so sad.
All seeds blundering seed upon seed upon seed;
This blinding need to need to need to need.