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The Artist
He began the painting
slowly,
black lines curving
through white space
silhouetting
a father’s face;
cold edges broken;
son just below the
bleeding windows
of memory’s careful work,
coming out silently
in a dark closet
where he sleeps alone,
half-awake to night’s
rhythms, gulls flying in
to feast on eyes
full of salty tears—
nightmares’ memories
flashing back, trembling
awake now in early light
suddenly knowing what to do—
Hurling paint onto canvas, he
sketches first a face in pain;
then with quick strokes,
perfect in proportion, a childsized
door, gleaming edges shimmering,
opening slowly for his escape.
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