Pentimento

There is a painting

beneath this one.

Night proves that.

For the dreamer,

day is a still life.

A blue vase 

next to pears

on a sil.

Day is for

negotiating 

objects.

But look closer.

An opaque rift 

in the cobalt

opens a space

occupied solely

by silence

revealing

an unexpected, if

irrational image.

A landscape.

Call it night.

This time

night is a path

along rugged cliffs

where I

wander alone

over roots and rock.

I can’t 

smell the sea

because a dream 

has no scents.

The vase, pedestrian,

the pear unripe.

The path ambles

beneath cumulus

flecked by diving

sea birds,

plovers I think.

In this place

my heart is so full

of love and God

that there’s no

telling them apart. 

The vase, bereft

of flowers but

buoyed by pears

is a pleasant choice

made in daylight.

The path, both

tricky and magnificent

is a mirage 

that will not last,

an unchosen 

image made

of both emotion

and memory;

an adolescent version

of a temporary 

paradise.

Awake, 

I strain

to be simple

as I’ve 

too many

feelings to hold

in or let go of.

Engrossed by

the mise en scene

behind things 

that are chosen

vs. those

bleeding

pentimento-like

through the vase.

Bliss leaves

its bruise.

Night blooms

as if pain 

were 

a flower

in the same way

my blood causes

roses to blossom.

Their poetry writ

like tattoos 

drawn in

disappearing ink

on my skin.

The body is 

its own red sky 

at mourning.

I know my

body’s mind.

Bruises are 

its language.

They teach 

that

time fades

all wounds.

A wound is 

a poem

about hurting.

My roses 

keep score.

Their redness,

a barometer

of unconstrained 

feeling.

The things 

that hurt

have a name.

My body 

remembers

by revivifying 

its canvas.

The mind 

has it’s clouds

but I am 

a whole sky.

Bruises bring 

an angel

the color 

of sundown.

They grow 

and fade

like weeds in 

a victory garden.

I am a bruise

that’s slowly 

fading.

Flowers at 

the funeral

of a boxer.

Little punctual 

memories

of one’s 

own pain.

That’s what 

they are.

Medicine 

from within.

Mornings are

for recovery;

a hospital bed

without a wing.

I lay recalling

whatever I can

before what I 

can and 

cannot do

are dragged 

away by

the undertow

of forgetting.

I am 

inside myself

and

beside myself

all at once,

blown like a leaf

onto the surface

of a stream

as the dream

takes me home

to itself.

What 

happens

at night

stays in 

the night.

Except for 

the exotic

flower I

wake

holding tight

in my hand.

Peter Valentyne

November 21, 2020