Dürer in the Valley of Oleanders
       

One wastes time
                        loving anything

this much: the foliage
                        won't still,

shuttering and trading
                        shadows

in the coronary
                        earth. The pigment

and sugar get it wrong.
                        Like his language

in the Venetian's mouth—
                        Farbkasten,

said the merchant, and wronged
                        the word. To translate

tires him-oleanders to forks,
                        cliffs to decapitated

generals. It's the errors; always
                        the clumsy tool

in the clumsier hand. Diirer
                        steps back

from the makeshift easel.
                        On the outskirts

of Arco there is little to traffic.
                        Laughter of women,

one muscling a wheelbarrow,
                        others basketing

oranges, is as indifferent as the cries
                        of pelagic birds.

He loves this monotony. But isn't
                        love wasted

on vineyards? Down the Alps
                        comes a rumble

of horned deer. Watch
                        as he swirls

the pigment, adds the tar; ed road.
                        The deer grow

louder. That man, those animals,
                        reckless and ragged,

will tear this mountain
                        to their will.

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Copyright © 2015 Kyle McCord All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission