Old story: man loves woman,
kills her (leaves, has affairs)
because, now that he has her,
she isn’t the woman he loved:
changes hairstyle, drinks too much,
wants children, nags him about
his wasting his life on art. Then,
wouldn’t each one after be the first?
He gives up the initial brushstroke
for a pose, for proper copies.
He is like those drab, rusty robins
that fly at speed into windows,
stun themselves, pick themselves up,
then launch toward those windows again
until at last the fall will not forgive.