There’s a yellow boat on a blue sea.
It’s a drawing you made, and the sun
is like an olive in the sky.
Maybe you were thinking Martini
thoughts, or maybe you were drawn
to that horizon which always seemed
to mark your work, that blurry line
of spray and cloud where the world
disappeared. Some artists render light
as if it were something you could touch
or breathe, but you always drew
and painted taste, a world made of lemons
and salt. Your objects melt and fade,
like something sweet on the tongue.
What lasts cannot be trees,
their trunks and leaves, but a flavor
caught for an instant, a sensation
in the act of fading into itself.
Your landscapes hang on my walls,
and every meadow, every sea cliff,
each green field, lingers in my mouth,
the sound of taste, another lovely, long farewell.