I spend a morning
dreaming birds—unlikely hues
in harmony
I spend a morning
dreaming birds—unlikely hues
in harmony
and again—
your insistent whispering
rumbling through my soul
depth and breadth,
accretion separating—
a turtle’s back
rumbling skies
and driving rain—no space
between the beats
seeing some other
order in a vine snaking
through the trellis
paint, markers, and
dimpled pages—their smooth
uniformity ruined
up there, hurled
around, circles narrowing,
singing to itself
no rod
reel or hook—only the space
the cast passes through
paints burn in
colors at temperatures
I can’t reach
all the world’s
artists drawing one object
from different angles