From the Archives: Camille Guillot


They paint peaches. Hazed
with impressionist light, their fuzz
a palpable halo. Or material peaches,
rude with juice. Serov, Monet, Flegel,
Galizia, Cezanne. The museum’s an orchard.
Some Flemish still-life painters
(do they know the world better
than God?) paint them like flesh suns.
But we don’t go to the museum.
We end up instead on a restaurant patio,
eating white peach sorbet
grainy and bright with tang.



From vol. 56, 2014. 


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