(it was more painful than pleasant)
who of course was misunderstood
by everyone but me
(but i don’t count)
anyway,
for those who think there is purpose:
his paintings were burned
(he lived on a farm, that was easy)
except for the one
i stole,
which told of the harshness of Russia
in winter, and convinced you
strawberries
were a dream
and captured the shadow of an angel
(don’t ask me how, you have to see it)
i met him, this exiled painter
(more than once)
and now i write poem
so i guess he made a
difference.
