The poem
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames he'd add a stroke of vermilion to the skin of a flower. Just so I stopped you at the door this morning and licking my index finger, removed an invisible crumb from your vermilion mouth. As if at the ritual moment of departure I had to show you still belonged to me. As if revision were the purest form of love.