#724 - in a corner of the page, my day

 

26.xii.21

724

2.360

in a corner of the page, my day

the painter fails to instruct himself

 

door open

gathering to dust

here there remain hidden

 

afoot in the moist

duck stately

 

other times

drier and we’d be on fire

 

sweet nothings

actual size

as in the game of sardines

 

sniff me out

young as a poet at Christmas

unwrapping umpteenth world

 

encrypted redacted

no one can read

 

never let shape complete itself –

that’s for example a simple rule

 

in the picture, so many things must happen

bird is followed to land

vine must tendril up

there’s the mowing next door

 

paint slap days of the summer moss

hours crooked as we make them

never knowing which way I go

 

clouds along

tilt, come again

always beginning in there

 

knowing time on my side

 

on boxing day

a blowfly blew in

went out, I closed the door

 

everyone has to be somewhere or not

 

remember to keep changing direction

that way you’ll stay hid