Time is the source of all madness, beige white
On green, yellowish green escalette
we can barely see ourselves in—

As if held up by design the reeds speak
To each other through tall-stemmed whispers—

Tendrils in tentative tugs, the lane-charm of docks,
Cryptic consolations that cube our lives,

Like the cumulative cumulus of clouds
whose cunning

Edges citadels of paint. There are daggers
In thought
, cutthroats deployed to design

Diagonal lines, diggings of one’s own

That raise a Lazarus tree
lost in grains of sleep.

What we disown is the disparate and dispatched
Only to find it dispensed again in palettes
by the human dispatcher:

Divergent lines mask the confluence
of our lives

The failed districts of paint, the downtrodden
that becomes a downward glance,

Locked between movement and stasis
in varying variance

Of its repeated self: There are daggers in thought,

—fields of wheat banking in memory
north to the rhythm of three black birds.

Sweaty and pale, white on black
like a fevered moon

And still night opens—beneath this hint of sky,

Leaving a broken summer
unhealed beneath each tree.

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