The river's edge must be purple in the landscapes,
The gorges must resemble female forms,
What these galleries present looks nothing like
What it looks like, but what it is, a version of the human,
Wearing spirit on its sleeve. Do these complete
The scene as they would match pueblo decor?
No one knows, viewer or painter, though they know
Somehow they like it, it prompts some chord
That couldn't sound before, an embodiment
Of flight for what only leaves the ground
In our minds, sacred containers
Always emptying, emptying.
