(k) those drawn with a very fine camel’s-hair brush

By | 19 August 2015


Names change
but the concept
stays the same, tracks you
across the valley.
Night rides in on a gust

like so much porcelain.

Is an alibi a deleted scene
or a red thread? Dust in the pigment
matted mane under silk folds.
Like painting
desert blossom
you go by bone structure
not appearance.

Number the joints
count the filaments
know that it takes a single slip
to spoil the line. One hump
can still pass as a horse. Two
is fooling no one.
You look to the brush––
the concept slides.


One stands perfectly still, inclines
gently her head.
Two argue about the weather.
One keeps mostly to himself.

One is revealed only by delicate
One has never seen the ocean.
Two pretend to be otherwise.

One thinks, a pose is a fusion of form
and subject.
Another says, half a rock
is also a rock.
One knows you could yield your life
to this place
and still not understand it.

One believes actions can be governed
at a distance.
Two discover a kingdom
in a fleck of salt.
One finds it easier
to pass through the eye
of a needle.

One forgot to interpret
the scenery, insists he is
not lost.
Two make plans
and put them in motion.
One spits on the ground
completes the pattern.

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