I never could draw a fish. or a bowl of fruit.
no face came from the finger of my pencil.
I made shapes. sometimes color.
I said, that’s what I meant to do. made friends with
abstract painters and writers. they understood.
it’s a matter of choice. I said that too.
everything I draw. everything I write.
it’s all dreaming on the outside instead of in.
a matter of conscious choice. I said that, didn’t I?
accidentally on purpose. stubborn too.
that’s the phrase. my nest, where I sleep.
a matter of faith. when you ask, call it prayer,
then accept what answer swims back to you.
all colors mixed don’t make black, they make
brown. just like dirt.
we can be shy saying, but that’s home.
a fire. food to eat. catch a fish.
call it art. poems too.