Bill Berkson



On Certain Pictures by Diane Andrews Hall

The cumulus swells, depending,
Aged or ageless, and one thin pink tousle
Crosses its dark denser other, seeking

To learn of the ample ones
Allow for two, permit descriptive—
Then square the merger by combing a detail.

Smitten like sea strata, the view
Of "breakers" feeds the rise, the steep lilt to join,
Glory wash abut to top-right billow-and-fluff brigades.

You find clinchers deep in white noise,
A reef of focus sustaining
Ocean’s overbite.

Perceived against the eerily orange
Neon zinnia, the exquisite goldfinch
Takes naked nerve.

The surround—Sensibility, you can smell it in a flash!
Synaptic hole punch, dire pinch of the Greater Photon:
My mind has a flash wound.

The flowery instant flits,
Gone chuckling, rinsed 
Down the fabled lane.

Daylight on a wall inspected
Enlarges to plank-like angles—
You go there, mentally, refracted.

Light shows the way the day goes,
And if distinction follows the sense of it
Can be only gratitudinous.

A child of this shimmer,
Swimming as fast as I can,
Paddling that summer, I fell down.
A painting’s squared-off bloom of surface apprehending,
Ordinary, caught, aligned, benign,
Neither literal nor not, and not a mirror, after all.