The lines of the woodgrain on the table
are the waves of an ocean of windy wheat
drawn by an invisible hand.

The portugese girl only walked by the cafe
in a dress
smiling to herself
but she took all the breath
out of my body
with her,
drawn by an invisible hand.

Later I lie awake with my heart on my sleeve,
drawn by an invisible hand.

My only gift is making a mess of things,
my only calling to be a failure,
but at least I sign my name to all these misconceptions
and on a really good day life is sort of a ramshackle version of heaven.

And this is the story of how I became an artist.

. . .

copyright 2000, Linford Detweiler