2 June 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 2

from The Constraints of Architecture

by ADAM CLAY

Can't see the field for the easel. Sometimes the easel

Is a mirror and you're fixing your hair. Sometimes this eddy

Of air carries the canvas into the woods, the tongue of a bear

In your pocket. Chasing it, you stop and think:

"Those trees contain a form I might

Someday admire," "Those torsos

Are mighty fine," or "This bathtub has been the place

Of many a good weep" and all apply

As grasshoppers swarm around your face until the sound

Of a yodel streams from the inside a tree! "Hello, yodel," you say.

Yes, that is the curve of a lover's back you see in the shadow

Of a tree, mossy blonde hair on the small of her back,

Her thighs and youth turned to bark. It's

Rewarding—your face flat here in the vortex of distraction.