by Ingrid Ruthig
Piss, she says, the
paint’s
all urinary shades! And later,
look how the catalogue muddies
what’s clear if you’re present –
this frame
of world
viewed
through a master’s eye
is the tint
of a jaundiced day.
It’s tough
to do justice,
reproduce
the nature of disclosure
or capture
the exact moment
we
understand
this
swirling miscreation
hunkered
agape in the smirch
stares out
as if willing us to see
we’ve
always been
inside it,
drowning
in the
picture we paint of ourselves
looking
back, invisible
on a
diminishing shore
all day
long
or as long
as the light holds.
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