A Drawing of the Day

The hair that grows out of an old woman’s shoes,
bones and teeth taken root in the flower-potted soil,
movements of dogs that describe the universe, as they experience each to the end,

a
yellow flashing
bulb

in her eye
as she hugs the artificial sphere.

As she embraces her braindead husband.
As her children disappear into the noon brightness.
As pregnant mothers drowse in the blue bath.

I will sit in the sun and draw lines.

This is my heritage.
Lines made without justice to the making of lines.

The brown bird
that wasn’t there, the dry pool, seeds that look like maggots.

My brain is a repetitive organism like sound.

If my legs caught fire it would merely be a costume.

In the whole of everything, lines, each effulgent, each false
in that they represent some movement
toward me,

I appreciate and I accept.

Whoever invented it, whoever consecrated it

was free