The Conversion of Saint Paul
It has already begun
he told his wife.
Someone is pushing the clouds
past the mountains
and the men are falling
off their horses
bits of silver
shooting stars touch earth.
Jacopo could see it all unfolding
in the darkness of dreams
but when morning light painted
the walls of his spare room,
he could only remember the small parts
of his dreams.
This morning he woke up and remembered
the wind, the way it would have to rip
across the canvas and not let anything go.
But he did not know how to paint
the wind and so he painted flags.
Later this would bother him---
what made him choose the pink
and yellow of tulips at twilight
when everything else was primarily
red and blue and brown.
Sometimes the mountains he dreamt
would have steps as if it was all you had to do
to keep going up, but other times they were blue
and distant. He did not know
how it would all fit together,
the horses already becoming clouds.
Author Discusses Poems