by tlhopkinson

Streak the sky like feathers

dipped in paint, keeping time with measure

and stippling the rhythm from bones

bending at the wrist and elbow.

A heated smoke conjures lift,

pressing up against the book ends

of dawn, and with a cooling tailspin

breaks into the aching scars of art—

carbon-copied depictions, reeking of sketches

and etchings, splattered sculptures

and watercolor washes of renderings

until unearthed as jewels

and bobbles and beads waiting to be

plucked and pieced into treetops.


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