What is a picture ‘of’ something?
It wads the stuff of ages, the powder made ready.
Where explosions timeout, tincture and cuddle
armadas of sound, the little ones unsought.
To understand these frailties is to keep in mind
and cognite the realities verbosely, mine and yours.
For all a last call, a reminder, a gender.
This is how I know stillness requires an energy.
How when I see that ready and unpuzzled smile,
its plagues a plight that play-act the light—
from off the brochure I lure a yearn, a reflect,
who wrought havocs, and encored our fettered sight.
And Plowed, plucked through, Concord-like
without a noun; none too pleased; a picture,
and thousands of them to spurn time’s churled delight.
For Chekhov, who wielded a few good ones, and for Hemingway whose young matador was unpuzzled, and ready to begin.
Now, who’s feeling lucky?
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