Some days
I measure things out,
more Mondrian than Pollock.
If I let my line out, say,
for a walk with Paul Klee, I do it
with a ruler and eraser
at the ready.
Other days I say,
Fuck that! and throw words around
more Pollock than Mondrian.
Looking back, I see
metaphors of fishing and knitting
rise up, reef rocks between
lounge rooms of doilies,
and running away from them all—
organic, natural as breath—
an umbilical line
heading straight for
my mother.
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