David Hickman


Wassily Kandinsky
 

Every landscape

rises

into the air,

and one can see in its midst

the little red horses,

and the blue pallor

of what was always,

and never,

a chair.


Their crashing forms

suggest

a bric a brac

among an eternity of the sun,

and the silences

that evaporate

and return to the sky

aerated,

bright, and finally undone.


So it is

in the Resurrection of the Dead,

The figures of the angels

blowing trumpets

above our unsuccess.

The musicís black line

suggesting a shining

that both ends and begins

at the left lower edge of the canvas,

and is always turning

density

into colorís

cry

and the

shapes

that wrest themselves

from all desire,