Читать книгу Still Working It Out - Brad Davis - Страница 10

Over on Lexington, in the glassy foyer

of Saint Peter’s Lutheran, four

Fujimura paintings, the largest

a two-panel sea of blues and greens

with—faintly—a fruited quince emerging

or disappearing, like the entire New York skyline

in the holiday blizzard we stepped back into

early that afternoon, threading our way home

around abandoned taxis. Pushing through the best

of the storm’s windblown drifts, down each

unplowed block of the graying city,

no more than ten souls in sight—all boots

and mittens, scarves and hats—and finally,

above the intersection we call ours, maybe thirty pigeons

playing mid-air, like children or bundled tongues of flame

not quite ready to complete their ecstatic descent.

If I could, I’d paint it—the appearance

of the likeness of the glory of the Lord—after

late Turner. No borders, no date, no discernible time

of day. Only the relative coordinates:

West 51st Street at 9th Avenue.

Though really it could be almost anywhere.