The only one that sees is my basement walls: dirty pours

 

The canvas, suspended by two wrinkled cups,

stands tall waiting for me to pour the mixed

paint. I watch it fall off the canvas and pool

onto the aluminum guard protecting

my table. It creates shapes unrecognized

by anyone except me, colored clouds

on my own white sky. I burrow in my basement

and squirrel them away once they dry. I name

them with names that I forget, never writing

them down, scared of mistakes, scared of permanence.