VIII

The artist's wrist does not shake or perhaps it shakes

only on canvases past painting where the eye grows dim.

I am no artist my wrists shake like a callow

executioner's I will sign no canvas I'll relinquish my name.

I seek the gesture that dips into pure rhythm brushes

a stroke of chaos on the city's impassive traffic-lights.

I'd sooner be a brushstroke a jot of colour than

this black and white grand immense portrait of a nobody.