print previewback JIM WHITESIDE
The Eye Is the First Circle
Lee Krasner
1960
oil on canvas
And what brought us here—edge of the hay meadow,
dry winter air ringing in my ears. At my feet, not a bird
but the shadow of a bird. Years separated from
my last cigarette, I remember what I loved most
about them—watching the smoke leaving my body.
He said not to go in the woods: There’s ghosts
in the trees. Bullshit. The ghosts were in the house—
months of passing each other silently in the hallway.
Not even leaving footprints as we walked around,
washed dishes, fed the cats. How many nights
I woke up—not an insomniac, exactly, getting
a couple hours’ sleep—and stared at the ceiling,
wandered the house, turned on a lamp to read with tea.
Waiting for any of this to matter, I stayed, he faded.
When I say his eyes were burnt umber, I mean
they mimicked the forest’s birch—maple—birch. When I
look closer, I consider this arc, the trail left behind
by the brush. Largest shape I can make standing still. 
Bed
The Eye Is the First Circle