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There are two endless directions. In and out.

afternoon cloud cover alters symmetry’s brief virtue trellis and shadow classic image illness posits it as a question two late T’ang dishes will mind or body one flowering one empty be the first fugitive clarity of a day’s gray scale study

Brian Teare

I pretend I was looking at the blank page.

I look into my mind and see nothing effort as in all arts all opposites dead to the world hazard

metaphor allows my body to be both language and nest exertion less weaving than condensation

the meaning of suffering hidden from me can really enjoy writing

Brian Teare

my immediate is form

yet technique is a

my own illness the tool I use with much I press and knead the materials beaten blended welded together perhaps now I

We seem to be winning and losing, but there is no losing.

after the War unable to eat food was scarce unable to write her grandmother unable to read gently used the tip I thought of her right forefinger of the story to scrape each she told me eggshell clean as a parable

unbidden the image now often returns usually more as color ivory interior flecked red sometimes more as sound her forefinger careful scratches tip against paper

Brian Teare


Brian Teare

Brian Teare Poems  

A Collection of Poems by Brian Teare

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