Hannah

Paintings are my scene museums have a lonely grace hearing screams I stare out of canvas that's really my fame the world my caravan from summer nights or gas fired winter places how often do I lie heaven for you to look upon the scent of my face you are like M Duchamp who before me rushes buttered names like waves his Fountain flushes unshaven waiters bring cognac to my table orange in measured spaces my oiled frame.