At the Frick
Unfiltered mind: eyes brown-black, quick
as needed, no more. Wet grasses
deadened leaves, a cold sun flashes.
All soil, scent: her canvas at the Frick.
No road no rope no call contains
the striding wild-tongued city-wolf,
Frick Park her freedom, limbs engulf
treed-trails, hills emptied from sharp rains.
— For Sophie, 2002 – 2014