a picture is
pictureless. a dream hurts.
so many rules, so
many pains, we can’t
get along.
a feather for good
luck, in a valley of
scars, pure
weathering in excellence. I
would chime in
you, nature rough—to
soften in you.
expelled.
examined. reevaluated.
such raw
interrogation, core ancestry,
running as we do,
often in droves, the
denominator is me.
I would see you—a brunette,
a blonde, an
anxiety, a sister,
watching me
fawn.
so many rules,
left unspoken, we
imagine
it’s different—it is!
sisters are in
their prime: similar figures,
or
vivacious figures,
oval faces, diamond cut
chins, hazel-green
eyes. I’ve run short on
ink, as imprints,
was it the hurt?
the picture is
pictureless the art is
mind; several
images, clothed precisely;
there as a riddle,
might take lead, or faint,
a dream wilting,
needing cotton, an earth
in you.
I will never love
like living again.
