The Artist's Store

Faces turned to the wall, Cold-shouldering the world, Squares of canvas Lean against the dark, Stretched to the limit Blank, blind, anonymous As stones. Cut adrift from easels, Stacked in racks; Like an orchestra's brass section When it's silent, All taps and pipes, U-bends and gaping mouths Ugly as plumbing. Each canvas-back is bare as a scraped pig, But turn the pictures round, You're hooked! They dazzle you; with their Quicksands of delight, They swallow you up and spit you out like pips. In the artists' store Wonder hides behind frames like the sun that sleeps In an angels' folded wings. Magic sleeps, like the fire That flames from an actor His hero-greasepaint on. Something miraculous happens when paint meets canvas, Old as caves, deep as dawn.