[Paris Window]

Pastel on paper
Beauford Delaney

Mouth, a little open window 
blush red pigment: every anarchist knows
Only brief satisfactions. I remember  
Friends who lit their rooms with kerosene
And pulled yellow carrots from dirt-
Off the grid seems violent now
Like something they cut you on, little mouth
I was twenty one and not afraid
of kissing strangers with
My full lips in backseats of not knowing
is there a saying
about feeling shattered
Little mouth, little air, little breeze I'd do anything     
For some salt water some lovely skin—
Have you ever touched anything just
Once

__

I'm from Detroit, all 'post-industrial' but also vast swaths of green- trees and brush bursting through concrete. There is a lot of life, here, and practice, and people living radically outside of things. I'm interested in the idea of the outside, and I want to get there. Often, I look out of my window, at the Detroit River, and think about this, maybe the way Beauford did, in Paris.

[Beauford Delaney's Paris Window] [Beauford in his studio]