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The Instructor (Free verse) by Alizarin_Crimson
Secretly, instructor lets down his rigging
to examine a drying canvas. She was
still inside the fence, he thought,
circling the edges for a way out. And she
was close to jumping it, he saw
by the assailants of color that licked the surface.
A dosh of red aligned with streaking brown
edges left raw, a slice through anyone who looked;
he knew what she was doing. He traced it down
to where it ended, a tranquil rift of blue
where the painting seemed to sigh, and it was
clearly the most difficult sentence.
Sliding his focus further between layers,
he picked at her process and the whole work
came untied all around him. He balked
at the naïveté of it; blushing at her bare
use of gesture, remembering what it was like
when he, too, would fervently daub at answers
ragging the galloping drips, deep into nights
in love, with an over-zealous use of Crimson.
He had felt that way about everything,
would finger even the red velvet of his dreams.
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