I see a man with his face to the sky.
It is covered with ink or something like glass or oil or marble.
His face is gaping open eyed. He is appalled.
This is how I feel.
Smeared of face, open eyes but seeing nothing.
Staring up and paralyzed by a grip of something horrendous that has happened to me.
I am going up a futile hill.
Like Hammy from “Over the Hedge.”
My shoulder’s slump. I am dejected. “Steve is angry.”
I am a little kid who doesn’t know what he’s facing is some kind of bush.
I just know “It never ends,” and “It never ends that way too.”
Where the pink sunset makes the sky look lavender purple
As the soft tropical breeze blows alongside me in my loose t-shirt.
My wife is there, and we are so deeply, richly, madly in love.
Just listening to the waves and letting all the buzz-fires of our embracing take us places.
We are on the porch and now the golden light is on behind us to our right.
Is it time to go in to the dining hall, where there are other guests?
A fragment of a picture on canvas sliced diagonally imperfectly creating an un-equilateral, irregular triangle, pointing up in the mist.
The point of the picture is black into white.
The picture itself is a dark portion.
It is pretty sizable, though not relatively measured.
It is something of the picture of a woman in a light white dress.
The woman is not visible, perhaps because of the mist, or because the picture being destroyed.
My ideal is not visible, but hopefully wrought in the parts I cannot see.
Where is the rest of it?
Dig deeper into the earth and you’ll uncover it.
Funnel swirling liquid down.
The imagination plays by its own rules.
The mind is instructed, and I wait for the interpretation without seeking it out.
And it comes.