Near the top right of the canvas, spilled paint
blooms, a vigorous tribe.
In this tribe, cups of tea find solace
upon saucers; no pane of glass
can be discerned from its lack.
Windows, if ever open,
are kept that way with
This red spill on a great landscape
is an ordered place;
a town where houses have driveways long
like coming upon a mansion
with sprawling grounds, velvet palominos.
Members are encouraged
to walk, exercise, remain proportional.
Each street shines, no tires
make them dirty. Feet and hooves
clopping along the edges have spread
for processions of grass and flowers.
All dreams are viewed in 4:3 aspect ratio;
in oval lakes, ducks swim in perfect triangles.
In its drop, the kingfisher’s beak dives toward the water
and time stops-
never a splash.
At seven each evening, a bell knells;
there is no church.
In this town, it is the only way to mark passage.
The bell concurs plainly with the sun, settling
beneath a virgin range of mountains.
guarantees stability, and thus to say,
“I’ll meet you when the shadow of the lamppost hits the third brick below
makes perfect sense.
Mornings are fresh, green and springwater
blue. The afternoons are warm blonde
shimmering. The evenings are
orange, pink, purple. The night is black
with an arrangement of starlight.
The world works for them, those
for whom the organizing principle
is order. It works,
and works, and works.
Laws hold everything in place, although
there are no laws, only followers.
The sun, the moon,
eyes, birdcall; all dim precisely.
Stories are written about the terrifying calamities
of wind and children.
The rest of the landscape is blur. Painted madness.
A world of infinite
So many principles, so many
contradictory, whole, separate, holding each molecule of paint
in place, exactly where it is, exactly where it should
and was not destined to be.
People of the Red Spill:
They remember without recall.
The vigorous tribe stretches,
infinite fingers reaching.
One day, when time sheds its tense exterior,
the canvas quiets.