in the middle where I start, dark ebb, dark flow. The Alice in Wonderland: a washing machine on spin - weaving this and that 'til it's just dips between the strings, just perforations in the canvas that tear and break night into
pounding pavement, bringing ocean's hairline to itch and flake and radio waves booming to tear mesh 'til texture.
a post-sodapop hiccup.
the jump and stumble of a green button-up blouse whose brown buttons blend slowly until, on either side in a landslide of springtime pollen on the sleeves and slowing to a rinse draining dark with a single highlight of white drizzle left on shingles and on Monarchs' wings
to drip to soil with the dark dip of horsehair into the ***** watercolor that’s left over from the spin where Alice got lost and began.