Sunday in Bushwick

by on January 7, 2020 :: 0 comments

Under a metal sky, walls blaze.
Unreadable script glints, a sculpture
whose angles clash, whose edges bristle.

No one touches the bricks,
as if fingertips will make them disappear.

A short-haired girl puzzles over
flames like feathers, feathers like flames,
leaves embroidered on shadow-colored cloth.

On the next wall, liquid white flowers
and thick purple leaves sprawl.
No need to puzzle over them.

Just take pictures.

editors note:

Imprint now, interpret later. – mh clay

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