If you stare long enough at leaden
branches overhead fretting dusk
into drab periwinkle fractals, and pigeons
superimposed drowsily on the gray,
one twitch
of a retina can rattle the world
out of its habit, sudden as a cuttlefish
rearranging its colors, into pink
paroxysms. For such austerity to flare
fuschia shocktart--
the essence of flamingo deconstructed--
for such insipid pigeons, leafless angles
and cement to embrighten with a blink
their only catalyst for fission--
I think
must mean there’s value in looking away
after a long time looking at-- in breaking
concentration, but in concentration,
and then saccades both of the eyes
and the imagination.
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