as I do in the dawn of a dream
grabbing a scene to grieve, to see
the pathos of straight buildings
ready to eat sky, already stroking
the clouds like a cloth against
a rosy cheek, hurting sultry skin.
and every day gets straighter in
my eyes, every curve becomes line
that goes on with no end in sight,
there is nothing that is revealed
in the confounding arms of dusk.
an artist doth sketch the river
of a life, pebbled, pricked, blood-
ied, stabbed, soaking all stories,
like a sponge submerged into
intricacies, that are no longer
there, there are only tall lines.
Image source: Art by Paul Klee
For With Real Toads.