the picturesque
now there’s a rub-a-dub

infiltrating passersby at negative degrees
the picture as equestrian riding off into sunset over childhood

photograph, old master, elven pixels cavort in tangles
or in the Berkshires a mini prairie in a forest remains of walls and paths to halfway there

and a pond
the snapshot as eternity a faded half truth curling

turns in woods where no paths are
and there she is

woven in a winding sheet of images
shimmering, not silk, though cocoon it is

could be sounds, too, tom-toms slowed-right-down
dropped octaves, or sped way up to shimmer high, but

not silk, though messages we weave are just as strong
a loose shirt on a rider stops the arrow entering

more than break-bruise deep – even in
the region of the heart, woven out of

life and into light