The Painter Makes a Room for Us to Stand In
Purplish freeway burrowed in the green
of almost-summer Right on the cusp
of rain Any second the rain could arrive
The twinge that would fray the voice
if the voice were awake Meaningless
freeway with few other drivers Toppled
red clubhouse as if the grass were tugged
out from beneath it So little of the painting
I would make for this moment would be
about the road and weather
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