This whole writing thing intrigues me--
why sometimes the mind decides it's
capable of encoding fragile shifting
mosaics in monogrammed
turns of phrase supposed to stand
up to spontaneous scrutiny and be
cracked by every human bean. And
then--it doesn't and decides
it likes silent plaster, white
wash--possessing every color, but
showing none, preferring to
let the spectrum be
more vibrant, undisturbed,
oil slick in a
rain puddle.
I sleep well in
whitewashed rooms and
awake with the day
(mine) under the pillow.
CVP
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