Ever an unfinished thought,
a spiral of fire always itself but shifting
not searching for ends or outcome,
Words are the paints,
they wiggle jumble stretch wink,
and
Poke-
That green, again?
Nodding in recognition,
Blown together by insufficiency,
thinking that this will flow into that will mold
into Who knows…
the final painting, ephemeral
as this gasp for air

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