—Jennifer Bartlett (1991-92); oil on canvas
How do you build a painting with only
sixty minutes to live
between five and six in the evening
on a seven square-foot grid—
she’s dug a fishpond in a courtyard
fissured it in time
stocked it with cold-blooded koi
dressed in calico and banana yellow
some seem dredged in flour as if
they might be battered. They dart
and swim among the water lilies
then tip their scales and slip
under as if cold war spies.
Leaves past their prime have fallen
and float upon the placid surface
like Matisse cutouts that have died.
So much happens in a single hour
and so little—you stare
at the appearance of depth
and think of the fish, the ticking clock,
where the weeping light goes
and realize that you could just walk away
just take something and walk—
