Impressionism

The bruises on my heart
the prettiest things
crimsons and purples
and shapes like
Monet at the
boucherie
lurid splashings
nebulae spanning
vast gulfs of suffering
pin-prick knife wounds
sparkling in the deep.
The hunchback’s fevered
labourings throw stacked chords
of grief
to loosen the grimy
keystone and add
the watermelon heads
of the congregation
to my painting.
It’s a piece of work
this heart.

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