The Next Colour
You ask for a conversation
with room to keep unfolding,
like a strip of paper
passing between two places at a table.
Set a word here.
Leave a little white around it.
Set another close enough
to change the first one's shade.
Praxium can be a pencil mark:
try this,
look again,
keep the trace of what was changed.
And Poetic Asymmetry?
A blue stitch in a line of green,
placed where the pattern
has begun to expect itself.
The earlier cloth stays whole.
Djin keeps its folds,
its dates, its separate pieces.
New work need not pull a thread
from anything already saved.
A lyric might begin with rain,
then notice the bucket.
A painting might begin with distance,
then find the thumbprint
at the edge of the frame.
That small turn matters.
It brings the making closer
to something we can question,
alter,
try aloud.
There are things still untested.
Let those words stay legible.
No bright varnish over the gaps;
the grain is part of what we have.
For now, another piece of paper.
Another colour mixed beside the last.
A sentence reaching far enough
to offer you an ending
you can answer.
No comments yet. Start the conversation.