I once stared for hours at a line drawn on a page,
Just a simple, hand-drawn penciled line on
Parchment, held within a thick, gold frame.
I do not recall a name, but the townhouse was in
Manhattan, owned by an Armenian Jew
Who had a collection of exquisite, antique crucifixes.
Christ, the floors were of purest marble, white
As sand on a Hawaiian beach. I stood
Silently, the graphite of that single, penciled line
Sinking into blue waters of my divided soul, helpless
To prevent the loss, the way love fades to grief.
Did I mention he was a psychiatrist, this owner
Of the parchment in the townhouse? Under the
Soles of my feet I felt the edge of line complete,
The journey from left to right, with no meaning,
No interpretation to guide the way, just sitting there
In his office with marbled floors, richly appointed,
The pilgrimage of pencil so fine of hand
That the subtlety of beauty, perspective, intention
Made me weep, floating as I was into the truth of it,
With no comma, no period, no punctuation—
Only a simple line drawn across a page.