Quiet art history is just as dazzling as fireworks,
the artist’s eyes fluttering open in the morning an explosion of a bomb.
See the veracity of the paintbrush,
The verifiable anguish in colors prone to roam the white space,
the place where luck dies.
What arguments have painters had with invalid ideas,
high on their laudanum and making no sense to anyone but
the artist, a doctor for chartreuse concepts that long to be a lively lime.
What canonical cloudscapes inspired the Sistine chapel?
What childish memory provoked David?