Tryst Poetry by Kristy Bowen
Everything turns away at this moment,
Even the man, legs folded in the dark,
Pathos floats in the blue gloom,
Slackened and pale, like its subject.
The figure, the guitar itself,
One piece, one form,
From the top of its bowed head,
To the bones of its feet,
From each slender hand,
To its inner hollow.
The painting resonates sorrow,
Like a low note, beyond hearing,
A sacrifice to the blue-lipped muse,
To art and starvation,
To love and salvation.