A Selfie

I think
in terms of paint:
sticky-thick impasto,
glaze-thin with turp and oil.
And in lines of poetry:
intricate convoluted structures
like seashells built of words.

What is this view,
feather, stone…?
(and who am I…?)
I can only tell
what these things
are not:
not a name
not an idea.
no belonging.

the more I subtract,
the more exponential
I become. 

 

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