In the repurposed church, music
recessed into the walls, and dark
times ahead. Seems to be the thing
which repeats on me like music

But day after day I have fun
I say to myself have fun, I
say over and over again
that emphasis is in the wrong

place, like the climbing site I saw
straight through. With my pen and paint set
in stone, I recorded in paint
the view from the chevin. Over

coming the attitude required
reading – and the trees became marks
vectors in an ancient game of
tropes and niches and clades and more

quietly as the paint’s surface tension
belongs in the world of calmness.
How should I say this? Unsettled
times when I am meditating

through use of representation.
Where neuronal activity
Is both the cure and the problem
child in the way that clouds descend

2 thoughts on “V.2

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