| R. T. Castleberry
Garden Park |
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the boy in the pointillist suit crosses the Mathematical Bridge. He has a book in one pocket, three letters and a diary to mail. He fails to notice the sun-shocked face of a soldier, the mercenaries lunching by the hill. Strolling a lane, Duchamps and Rothko argue over the compromise of incantation. It is, they say, derivative of necromancy, of alchemy. If Seurat disagrees, he isn’t saying. His mistress is demanding more Bearnaise sauce, more song. Barnett Newman details a piece for them: melded to a Calvary stone I see a clown and a waterfall, a cliff diver off his line. The demands of nakedness and divinity define us today, if not tomorrow. Death finds a little corner in every work of art. The boy’s book is open and fluttering in the mineral winds. One page is a kingfisher; another is a pear.
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