Do you see the plaid of the water?
How the strokes punch a counter-rhythm
between the seconds:
a trichromatic syncopation.
Do you see how it
checkers itself through impasto lines of prose—
violet,
fluid
—a stray cat’s spine at dusk,
stretching to avoid the past?
Tell me, you
Oracle, I plead:
tell me where in your frame
I can be not found, but discovered
like the water
unfolding between worlds.
Tell me where beneath your bridge
I can sit still, as a well—camouflaged by
a tortoise-shell of brushstrokes.
Tell me before I dissolve
& disappear—
Your viewer: a reflection, not a ghost…
