At the National Gallery
Paul Potts
You see the million hands.
Yes,
have they touched them?
Do they feel what I have felt:
the million hands in the mind
pointing and prodding
while I wait
for a painting I have never seen
except in the movies?
And the hands,
do they know
that the rivers of ink
rush no slower than water,
that the wind of the pencil
still whistles in the grasses?
I stand there breathing
the grasses of D.C.
breathing as if the air itself
had been drawn once
in a careful line
as if somewhere in the gallery
a white lily were opening
in the magenta sky
of a canvas,
and the hands, the million hands,
had parted for a moment
to reveal
the innocence of living.
Paul Potts (b. 2007) is a poet from Oklahoma. He began writing poetry in September of 2024, after recommendation from a teacher. You can find his poetry in Frontier Poetry, Posit Journal, The Louisville Review, and Nova Literary-Arts Magazine. He was a finalist for the inaugural Rowayat Poetry Prize. Outside of writing, he enjoys playing jazz on both the drums and vibraphone.
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