ENTRANCE

ENTRANCE

The paint is called Golden Vista, also the name
of an RV resort in Arizona, a karaoke bar in Lisbon,
and beachfront suites in the Cyclades, but I see
fresh farm eggs, over easy, oozing over the known
universe of toast on a blue plate, out the front door
between the legs of my ladder, where I make offerings
of one splodge after another to the grooves in the ply
that clads the entry way. Yellow. Inside Lascaux

there’s a yellow horse; in the white inch that runs
across the top of a child’s painting, a yellow sun.
Carol paints the grooves yellow. We cook together.
Two. What once disguised wariness, now invites new.
Now my front door opens, truly. And whenever we
are lost in the landscape, in the snow-flecked white-caps
of the channel, in the hollow of a shoulder, the drops
of Golden Vista we spilled will light our way home.