Revisionist Poetry. – Art is Everywhere, v.2

In the cluttered hush of my studio
a sheet of canvas breathes like folded skin.
Turpentine fogs the window; a plaster hand
leans against a crate stamped LAST SUMMER.

One painting is a bruise of ultramarine—
another, a grin of ochre stuck on burlap.
I price them in small currencies: time, regret, glue.
Sell one and the throat hollows; keep all and the room becomes sea.

So I stack them like leaning boats, names scratched on the bottoms,
each a weather report from the night I made it.
Maybe the point was never the object but the crossing—
the hands that learned to steer toward the light.