A couple of black dogs with fire-brown eyes
are playing soccer with an empty paint can.
Munch is working in his outdoor studio.
It is a quiet summer Sunday in Kragero.
At twenty yards, a wild-haired redhead
is sitting naked in a pool of leaf-dappled light.
Munch scarcely acknowledges her presence.
He is painting an enormous fragmentary sun.
One of the dogs knocks the can off Munch's leg,
Easy, good Strindberg, easy, good dog!
Munch circles a thumb on his palette,
sniffs at the sky-blue paint now on it.
How to know if one is really dead...
or if one is passing time in a madhouse?