Reflections on Caillebotte
J. Quinn Brisben
The shining paving stones of Paris here
Preserved, the light controlled so not to fade
The image, moisture content monitored and made
To keep the paint forever bright and clear
Until a bomb is lobbed or fire makes sere
And dark a temporary thing by time betrayed
As all must be, these strollers once arrayed
In what is not yet costume, real and near.
We cannot speak Homeric Greek nor know
Quotidian glory in a beaver hat,
Assured with bustled lady making show
Of up-to-dateness on this brushed and flat
Illusion with its smoothly frozen flow.
We turn our backs. They move. We can sense that.