for Darragh Park

Because dusk comes in not long
after 5 o’clock in Chelsea
and lamps come to life, a gold
wash falling from them,
resting on the blue-and-white,
lighting small gold clouds
in the dark wood,
or pooling in circles on the carpet;
and presumable cars whisper by
as curling leaves rattle at
the windowsill and the late hour
settles in deeper, in tune,
it could be said, with Delius on FM;
and facts, severe but familiar,
adhere to velvet, to polish, glass
and silver, and to pictures of things.
Or because calm, the readable
representation of calm, is
an achieved thing, like the last
fine overlay of glaze or light;
and because, finally, one is
entitled to a signature, affixed
now much like a reliable fact,
briskly drawn, streamlined like the city—
the painter nods and lays down his brush.