Kenton Nelson started painting at 40.

he called me "young artist" today, I
quite liked
that very much.
I'm 37.
I recently broke up
with my words, more of a
we need some time apart, we need
time alone
away
from it all.

We went to his studio
after lunch,
 I saw pictures
of his daughter.
Nine, he said,
she's nine.
Kenton is near, if not already, an easy 60, a clean,
beautiful and capable 60,60 like you
imagine it should be, lean angles confident
like a statue that made itself, or
the simple posture of a tree
pure in the accident, now obvious
from 6 decades of conversations
with the wind.

I recently let my son go.
His name is Jude.
he was less than 5 months old
and inside of his mother.

I did the math quick, deep
and private, calculate the artist and
the girl in the picture, hurry, I did not
want anything at all aware, or that exists,
to see me racing myself
towards equals.
and it was nice to see something on the other side
of those two parallel lines, it was nice to remember
what hope feels like.

Kenton showed me some techniques, some methods discovered
from when he perhaps and maybe
had equally most likely
felt the same hope from
the same and wonderful words, young
artist.
I was new,
and grateful.
We were just
two men
most comfortable
in rooms where walls
cradle our anonymous cathedrals.
We were just two men, discussing tips and tricks
about the laying of
sacred bricks and invisible
colors in glass,
that others may notice, or not,
from the other side
of certain and particular walls.

And
for a moment I did not feel so recently
close to death.
And actually, death is a poor
and shitty word
to ask to mean this, but
right now you see, me and my words
arent exactly on what you might call
the best of terms.

Recently I have been close to something else,
something much different than death, something that does not
liberate, something that does not renew, something
that does not reap, and will not sow, and so
it was really quite nice to learn
that Kenton started painting
at 40.