Our Landscape with Wind and Children

Near the top right of the canvas, spilled red 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
quiet rubber
stops.

This red spill on a great landscape
is an ordered place,
a town where houses have driveways long and straight,
like coming upon a mansion
with sprawling grounds and velvet horses.
Members are encouraged
to walk, exercise, remain proportional.
Each street shines, no cars
make them dirty. Feet and clopping hooves
along the edges have spread
dirt, enough
for processions of grass and flowers.

All dreams are viewed in 4:3 aspect ratio;
in oval lakes, ducks swim in perfect triangles.
In this drop, the kingfisher’s beak dives toward the water
and time stops-

there is never a splash.

At seven each evening, a bell is knelled.
There is no church;
in this town, it is the only way to mark passage.
The bell coincides plainly with the sun, settling
beneath an unexplored mountain range.
Such order
guarantees stability, and thus to say,
“I’ll meet you when the shadow of the lamppost hits the third brick below
your window”
makes perfect sense.

Mornings are fresh, green and springwater blue.
The afternoons are warm, yellow. The evenings are orange,
pink, purple. The night is black
with an arrangement of starlight.

The world works for those who live here, those
for whom the organizing principle
is order. 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 a blur. Painted into madness.
A world of infinite
organizing principles. So many principles, so many
contradictory, whole, separate, that they hold 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:
Imaginations. Members.
You remember without recalling.

The spill-circle stretches
its infinite fingers, reaching.
One day, when the time is pink,
the canvas quiets.

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