In motion, about to sing,
the viewer walks and walks
as if hunting for childhood
and death to imbue the foggy air
in upswelling umbers. Her wished-for gift
has slid into the emptiness, low,
or in the corner, the space surrounding
her movements. Driven to remain
while she knows the artist, mesmerizer,
touches chance, none of it makes sense.
From slow gel, what emerges?
Not a forest. Not pretend or metaphoric births.
Sureness of self, in this breathing state.
Encounter, burning to ash in the emptiness
around airborne parrots, a juxtaposition
of fragile secrets about what lies beyond.

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