Seurat

The subtle prick of pointillism,

The image masks the dots,

Imagination acupuncture.

Where in the subtle points of pain

In living flesh evoke a scene of lovers,

Fin du siècle malaise… une femme inassouvie.

I’m alone and making love to you,

Angry love with knives and needles.

The pain elides into inchoate pleasure,

Sharp instruments dulled now.

It’s our impression.

Lingering points of pain subside.

We are the painting.

–Bill Schubart, Summer 1990