The oil paint stains his fingers.
Thick, congealed blood
two different shades of green.
One
for the tree,
one
for the reflection of the tree
on the wavering lake. Just
where that photograph of me
was taken.
It’s too dark to see me now,
but if you felt
around the pine needles,
you’d find cool metal coins,
two of them,
which I’d promised
to balance on my eyelids.