Paint me a picture with countable stanzas,
colors that rhyme: directly and slant;
paint me a plot that defies its own meaning,
a pattern of time that collapses intent.
Paint me the lines that twist their own language,
the form a bit playful, but in essence profound;
paint me a picture that explains its own being,
then takes that same being, and twists it around.
Paint me a poem that's naked when clothed,
with innocent yang and experienced yin—
make it sing loudly the chords of the soul
and paint it again. And again. And again
First published in Every Day Poets,
2011-03-09.
That magazine is gone, so this is the copy that’s left.
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