Anselm Kiefer
The woman thinks of
Straw, ash, clay, lead, and shellac
the milky dust that clings to a hand
As it paints furrows in a bohemian landscape
He readies the milk-mud for a canvas
half the size of her vision
and without knowing anything else
she has seen him in New York
London, Paris, Berlin,
Sometimes in a small screen
But often enough in a white room
A perfect square of some autumn field
Cut and carried and burned with something
she had meant to say.
-Nina Alvarez
