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Image for post

Gazing too long, my oriental rug —
Draws me into black, with red
Or was it red with black?

White forces contrast, mocking
Me in purity of swirls, pattern set

While mine own shifts,
A Monet of dribs and drabs

Liking to think they made
A full portrait, now the walls
Close in on a Rorschach

I always preferred Pissarro,
Her delicate touch, commanding
Less attention, my uncrowded view

Which direction am I regal?
Which am I fraud?

Nothing about me
Has ever been easy
Enough to be called

Casual, except in moments
Of quiet contemplation

Where hands fly to purpose,
Mind coils up in strike position

Waiting for the call
To release the powder,
And strike my mark

Except I only shoot
When it’s pitch black

The ends of my rug
Fray carelessly against
My frustration

I brush them into place,
One more time

Written by

Holes and a series of rabbits — my debut poetry collection — now available!

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