Riffing Leonardo

Passion’s a man sketching
faces and hands, sunset
making the sketches glow
beyond what he could make.

You witnessed a grove
of walnut trees to the west.
You rose to hear them whisper
his name in Old City,

his shoulders rising, trying
to reach you, his cough and slur,
his paper romance. The road
seems to wind forever.

Old City disappears. The bus
moves past fathers weeping,
mothers recollecting how
it was being loved before—

before abstraction, before
the cathedral dome
came down and all prayed.
All said another will come,

lying like girls who’ve lost
their way. But unconcerned
you traverse Old City, echoes
of a trombone at the river,

the hills falling to the river,
the hills succumbing
to the trees, the artist
getting love’s majority right.

Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in NEAT, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, Kentucky Review, and many other magazines.

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