Talking to a (Deteriorating) Ryder Painting

Albert, were you aware that you unmade
Yourself each time you stole your paintings back
To add another line, color or shade
No viewer ever thought the painting lacked?

Now Seigfried’s near to blending into black
While witches sink too deeply in their night
And horse-back death no longer sees its track
Because the thick-laid past erupts to blight

Your last intent. I sympathize. I, too,
Have carried brush and color furtively
To place a daub, so sure I could redo
The done and finish this time perfectly

Only to discover when I do
The older layers pushing their way through.