When I was little I believed that if I looked
at something long enough I could make it
alive.
Though the more I looked, the less eyes
understood the thing, so then I knew I’s are
no thing.
There is no I or land.invision. Someone
once said memory is the fourth dimension
of any landscape so we insist in this space
even if we’re not allowed PTSD as we are
too present without name. Soul; there’s
nothing and they still jealous. Freud had
said the Irish race are immune to analysis
because they exist in the dreamworld
already. This was never officially cited.
I. ReappearindreAm
All the registers merge in

Painting is the Queens English, a
Superimposition; all those events
compacted. Solid. Barging through the
Suez.Sussanah.Oh,orchards.
Mark my body, mark the words despite
they slip. This is drawing.
They can be a minimum with sweet intent.
Maybe someone can see them.