Glimpsing Renoir

Poem by Bruce Bennett

The bathers are a blur,

her, her, her, her, and her,

amidst the earnest gawkers

and stationary talkers.


I see the rosy hue

of one, or maybe two,

but still my eager gaze

is blocked in myriad ways,


And though I weave and bob,

that flesh is still a blob.

I’ve done the best I can.

I’m off to see Cezanne.