Learning the grammar of time
Light and dark patches, unreal hues,
Merger of reflections, blurring lines of logic,
And photo alteration conversations that refuse
To end can disorient. But they must. They will.
Art is so much like writing or political unrest.
Call each poem a revolution, if you must,
But it is in an artist’s own interest
To finally say: I love this. I can live with it.
Or else. Errant grammar seeps in undetected
We get a past that’s incomprehensible and infected.
Written on 06 January 2020