With once dashing bags Flagging like ensigns At stork thin legs.
The Phrenology of Paint I have been trailing light fingers over the surface of oils; Following the landscape of uneven ridges. Absent of colour, these strokes need to be art through other devices. I am splaying my palms over textures trying to detect the ripple of matter. The brain that made this, The creator identified in the created, The smudged index of God encoded in bone. Here are my epiphanies; Absence of vision is not darkness. Absence of god is not emptiness. I open my eyes And take for granted.
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