by Mark Taksa
The corn husker leans to the pond.
Her muscles are slow among loose lilies.
Her chest is full for the taste of a baby
and of the eyes of the town fathers
crowding a tree they spy behind.
The ceiling of the gallery
is sky over the branches.
The old guys will gaze until corn grows
to a harvest filling every plate empty
under every hungry eye.
Art is altered life.
The canvas is quiet as corn
in the sun. The sound of the water
is champagne I swill in my glass.
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