On A Canvas

Takes off. His shirt in the museum. Bee. cause he loves the touch and scent of canvas.
Her mind Is. Painted with his mouth, with words she sometimes takes out
and bathes with.
In my eyes, we are stretched taunt, between wooden posts,
waiting. for the brush strokes to find our bodies.
Our existing. Also a canvas.
SO he loves the scent and touch of US,
of our hope and confusion. and
the Polaroid selfportraits on February nights. Here
I am. Yours. Where she goes to paint her thoughtfulness.
Undress. and
let loose her creation. juices.

Mm. And she. Uh.
She, uh, her painted heart, the way to the paint is a brush up the skirt.
She knows her eyes are closed. And she is breathing his breath.
Certain times the shoes on the floor that walk by are different from the others,
they are the same each time.
Guard. Museum. Guard.
Her minds can almost wonder each time if they will say something.
But she can not care. His mouth in her hair
his Hand on her skirt ass neck breath.
She IS the centuries old colored oil on the walls,
he is The hard paint on every canvas.
THEY are a sculpture.
Their art drips from every tip. They see them selves in the corner mirrors of the porcelain room as he Turns her head,
lifts her mouth to his and eats,
the Last Supper.
They are the Master piece.



A. Tipton_ T.Fullum.