The book rests while I rest, in consolation, in present tense. In between. I feel patient. The space between them, between angel and mother, where the eye is pulled as if to a puzzling blank, is the painting, I see that now, what Warhol detailed in his garish, infinitely reproducible prints as playfully sinister, a garden of sculpted trees, a horizon, the end of empiricism, here between them, and the end of matter, where the body is already corpse, already sepulcher on the other side of will, a future tense, where touch--most precious--is mediated away in a messenger after all, a daemon in the ears, an image in the eyes. Seeing and hearing things: even everyone knows that's possible. The paint, could you touch it--ground minerals, linseed--dirt and oil. Ink, a tainted water.
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