J. P.

As if I was living
at a pure and faultless altitude,
as if my breath was stolen from me,

as out of the chaos of a life
the purity of his art arrives
to bless and forgive all things.

In all my longing for the beautiful
few things have equalled
the exuberant yet sober density of his art

which I admire and follow
as a thought is followed in the mind
but cannot achieve it for myself.

But do not call this passive,
I stand before his canvas and know
that here is one I could have engaged with

engaging him now
(and neither acolyte nor disciple)
one of the admiring ones

breathless at that point
where the paint begins its ascent into
that infinity it gives its valid meaning to.