At the End of Summer

I do not count sheep to sleep
I fence them in and shear them
worn down in night-long turnings
morning is a repeating regime with
more ducks than can be marshaled.

Crowds looking for each other through
the mess of family and career
dab dab dab and smear
clouds like ice cream on a canvas
give me back my charcoal stick.

We move in we move out again
from concentration to reverie
brilliant turquoise cut round
and triangular for jewelry
put it on to become somebody.

He dodges the bullet and the question
she leaves so as to not be cruel
around a central pot I paint
in corners my conceptual tool
I insist it is what I say it is.

It takes a long time to test
the line between joy and terrible
one rock wall perhaps in the east
a pink circle resembling a mirror
this is in no way a self-portrait.

Nearly none of us can
really if you think about it
tend to so many tendencies.
We grow them green and toss
them off red like leaves.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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