by Darren C. Demaree
Raced from the mud,
all blinking owes a debt
to the un-blinking.
Eye still, propped
open with toothpick,
the escaping
moments are just
as valuable as available
dreams. Tatters
like doves tied
to the rope creator,
the thwack of love
comes clean
across the swollen back
of a real vision.
In two hands,
the cloth, the frame,
is enough for me.