In the shorter light,
in the extended night of
cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast
clumsy net forward
into what it all might mean
to fretted you,
to me, stretched
canvas, though I will
not thrust these
words upon your
paint or palette but
make offering for
your own work
to feed us through
the eyes;
perhaps time
to remount the horse
and soldier on,
or to fall again,
gain Damascus perspective,
from one's
back watch vision
distort massive
horse
into a God
receding
into
necessary
darkness
foregoing
image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
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