What would these look like as poems? Who writes them?
Or is it something only painting can do?
The feel of the water rising between the two of you. And how are you there over the water?
David Hockney, Swimming Pool
David Hockney. My Parents, 1977
The impossible straightness of things. The impossible perfection of color. Cleanliness.
The mirror that seems twisted, reflecting how it shouldn't. The father with his heels lifting from the floor.