Metamorphosis
He made dots on canvas and called them points
from each point he drew lines, wide, straight
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Outlived by Seurat
From inside the screenhouse
I look out.
Trees and bushes . . .
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Bone Hollow
It’s nothing, this rim of bone
I have forsaken its shadow . . .
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Doctors Know
We want to get up and get dressed
our clothes fold apprehensively
over the doctor’s chair . . .
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