What of spring like a game of chance
you become part of without knowing it?
At breakfast my daughter tells me
the history of artwork never ends
pretty much but it’s more like a question
than a statement, syntax and sound
like two buds of light on a tree
departing before the mind
can process their belonging. The images
we seek single us out through madness
perhaps? Even if we can only see
the world through the filter of our mind,
there’s still a world below it we have not
yet seen, one under the surface of the words
we form when we cannot bear to carve
sense from sense, a drop of water removed
from the largest lake grows larger
than the lake itself.
Read more from Issue No. 7 or share on Facebook and Twitter.