After Two Paintings by Richard Baker

Taking their final breath, the tulips strain against blue glass, against a window pane, like glowing Tussaud ladies. The pink heads twist. The whole arrangement almost levitates except where fading leaves curl, darkeningthe edges like the lips of half-burned candles. Light shifts across the room. This palette handles bouquets of mackerel tossed on shallow plates, mouths open, hopeful, a foliage of tails, dead, glassy eyes, the crenulated scales. These fish are solid stuff, no pointillist illusion, no "Table with Food." The silver hardens. Behind the house, the alley, city gardens, a frieze of clouds. A hundred windows frame a hundred insides looking out, the dry collage of bricks, fire escapes shadowing bare branches pointed skyward with the same strained prayerful attitude against the sky. lynn chandhok

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