Hefting tins of lead paint from the yard across the
bridge, the Square, the job, need a licence to shit
in the road, work like an 'orse, says the guv'nor.
On the scaffold, chisel sable, inch tool for the
ceiling rose in red, fitch for the leaf green ovolus,
low sun through windows lighting dust sheets,
softening the cornice, frieze; the light, the glow, I'm
Botticelli, Rafaello, want to lie on my back, stretch
an arm to guild the swags, tint the darts; I step back
into nothing, buttocks, head, hitting ladder rungs,
sprawl on the herringbone floor, paint spotting
around me, bright, like an animal's blood.