Pontius

One could not take her painting very seriously

Nor his watching from the window, impassive

Blood dries quicker than paint

But all the wide obliging sea

Nor his watching from the window, chin-heavy

Will sweep away this red refuse.

Blood dies quicker than paint

Shouts the gunshot on the lake

But the things that heaven takes,

Human things that Michael breaks

Will wash away his refuge.

As he watches from the window

For the final stroke

In Lily’s masterpiece.