A movie, a series of still pictures
presented too fast for the brain
to process. It cannot be convinced
despite knowing
what it seizes is not movement
but the illusion of movement.
I did some painting yesterday. Now
I’m ignoring specs of primer
on my glasses to see the page
to write the poem. Still
everything is clear.
I know
who I am,
what it means,
why I’m here.
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