Convergence, 1952 – Jackson Pollack

Space never knew it was space, faint
and light thought no thoughts,
could not correlate stroke

nor shade. Paint knew

but could not say. Yellow
fancied the rules between thin
and wide. Some spark gave a hint

to life. Someone spoke of war, some

of scarcity, or sex. What is the stain
but the story? Awareness by the line
of the landscape, of the role it plays.

Composer, fan, and teller of things.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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