MARIBUSH, WHO
SELLS THE OASIS
The paintbrush man comes by on Tuesday,
selling his wares - brushes, colors, palettes and
solvents too. Anything but sensible talent; you
need to supply that on your own. Come back
tomorrow, when we leave for the African veld.
Green-acre, parking lot, deep-dish monkey bar too.
I can picture anything you mention in my mind.
-
The heat makes imaginary things shimmer - nothing
is really there; we live in an oasis of time that passes
and fades when you measure. Or try to measure.
The cattle call, the waist-bush brush, the row of
old cannons on the West Point Hillside. Each
one captured in some great Army victory.
-
How do you want me to stand? No matter what
I do, will you really even remember tomorrow?
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