Utrillo: 2

There are two sides to every window.  Through which something sensory can pass through.  Placing an open jar in the middle of an otherwise unpeopled room can yield little in terms of tangible artifacts.  Closing, tightening the lid does nothing to encapsulate what arrested us in the first place.  From the outside looking in, Utrillo conjures up a room and its inconceivable indoor heat, which stays on the other side, steam from the kitchen across the glass.  As they say, these days must surely pass, though clearly spoken from a perspective that allowed for warmth in that way of thinking.  Stepping across the slovenly wilderness of the asshole part of town, his foot presses down the blades of wild grass that bend back.  A man up the block fumbles in his pocket for change.  Lint, a chipped breath mint. So little can be

held in the hand.