Prayer of Paint

Part I

There are no newspapers
left to protect the floor.

Now everything's digital.
Now we use paper towels.

Nothing's the same.
It never was though.

Part II

Creaking steps up to swift
door and pungent smells behind.

So this is what oil smells like.
Now that we have no newspapers,

I have forgotten ink, paint,
and how nostrils function that way.

Part III

Es ist herrliches,
der Mond, die Jagdtasche.

I will paint it roughly if I can
and make sure it still smiles.

Then I will shake it like a dollar
but it will not dry. I will ache.