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heft :: rusty morrison

by on June 11, 2017

She sketches sky. Not to lure clouds—diaphanous, changeable—
down to her canvas, but to see wind’s measure
of their heft.
In the low, thrush-voiced shading of her graphite pencil,
she hears variations in density
as the psyches of leaves individuate.
Every previous perception she’s taken from world—each small, muscular
she will yield to weight
as her counter-mode of attention, and let what amasses
extend. On her erasure-roughened paper,
a skylark’s wings in flight
are neither bone nor blood, yet they gather
from bone and blood the aggregate weight of moving shadows.
But not so abruptly
as would provoke in her a whitening of skin, a wringing of hands.


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