The crack at the base of the painting from where it was thrown and the way the bottom corner of its frame separates—just there. And is it a very fast and tiny typewriter
or moth wings beating against the closet wall? Or the ticking of a heart?
Landscape crushed like tin foil and the way the iridescent lake is peeling from it
at its borders—like a fallen leaf. The stream shuts off at midnight as the lake begins to curl around its edges, and the distant toilet flushing, 5 a.m.
And glaciers, too, sinking into mountains like potato chips. Sheen of asphalt. Who’s a saint? The clock, beating out its tune. Someone peeing into a large cup.
And is it a very fast and tiny typewriter the stream shuts off at midnight as the lake begins to curl around the closet wall or moth wings beating against the distant toilet flushing, 5 a.m.—and the way the bottom corner of its frame separates. At its borders, its edges,
the crack at the base of the painting—and glaciers, too, sinking into mountains shunted to the side in piles like potato chips. Someone peeing into a large cup and the way the iridescent lake is peeling from it like a sheen of asphalt. Landscape crushed like tin foil
from where it was thrown—just there.
The clock beating out its tune, like a fallen leaf or the ticking of a heart. Who’s a saint?
