We
are a crowd in the clouded spaces
Eyes
turned in every direction
Reporting
from the general collection,
As
it were, a painting hung in the east gallery
Up
for forensic analysis
People
mill and eddy in and out of frame
Red
string delineates the lines of sight,
The
path traced, the discharge, the flight
From
each eye in the scene – and yet,
As
the twine laces the gallery
No
two lines intersect or meet
Let
me sit in this room
And
paint on its walls
Sleep
in the temple
And
copy, copy, copy
Then
clean the floor, very
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