Stepping Over My Shadow and Stepping Into Another

What of spring like a game of chance
you become part of without knowing it?

At breakfast my daughter tells me
the history of artwork never ends

pretty much but it’s more like a question
than a statement, syntax and sound

like two buds of light on a tree
departing before the mind

can process their belonging. The images
we seek single us out through madness

perhaps? Even if we can only see
the world through the filter of our mind,

there’s still a world below it we have not
yet seen, one under the surface of the words

we form when we cannot bear to carve
sense from sense, a drop of water removed

from the largest lake grows larger
than the lake itself.

Read more from Issue No. 7 or share on Twitter.