Thinking about seeing

Recursive

As in a medieval miniature where space is
tilted and skewed, anchored only by a thread
of ink, a thin rope swelling into snaking patterns
copied from Asiatic silk the color of crushed gems
and beaten gold, the flat screen in front of my hands
tilts and skews, and my thin rope—a thought, that
mayfly of consciousness—flits to pattern again.

The variable pitch and yaw of these buildings
in a Sienese predella panel, the civic landscape
that carries all points of view simultaneously
(the bird’s-eye, the eye-level, the scopic)—I see
myself seeing, wishing for such isometric perspectives
while consumed by my own vanishing points.

Sometimes a poem happens

Inside out

It’s as if I could slip
my fingers through each isarithm
of softwood—cheap paneling
now a matte painting of the wall,
now its memory, now

And on the other side, what I
set in motion: the open field, the low hill,
a crease scored in bent blades of grass
where I forgot the wall stood,
my footsteps blurring as the
grass unbends.

***

Too much going on to wander with a camera, but sometimes a poem happens instead.

Have a lovely week, all y'all.

Vent

"The answer is entropy—how smell works—
little bits of everything—always spinning
off from where they were..."

From "Sublimation Point" by Jason Schneiderman

***

Finished the history class, learned much about Nancy Spero and the paucity of images against war before the Thirty Year's War, and after that 47 page paper and the Ongoing Work Crush, am about to go nose-down on the keyboard.

Don't wake me up, all y'all, at least not until there's fresh coffee...
:-)