This is a painted mask.
This is also a painted mask.
This is a complimentary cookie in a wax paper bag stapled to a brown paper bag.
I posted a few days ago about the cow in the time machine
a few minutes later
I sat outside a cafe on a bench waiting for take-out food.
I read about a cow in the book I grabbed on the way out
then again on the previous page
then I looked to see the title of the chapter.
This is…synchronicity.
The proportional yet abstract face made of shapes like cactus or flowers,
perhaps a mask in commedia dell’arte,
*
or a book describing the famous wonders of the world,
thin as a snowflake, balanced on one edge,
tipping to one side diagonally & dampened by droplets
*
sliding down a stained blurry windowpane
pooling on the ledge, osmosis dampening
cream-coloured paper, flecked & rippled like grief or papyrus –
*
inscriptions of blue ink (messages of mysterious flavour)
to devour, to decipher (imagine the Hanging Gardens of Babylon)
& heaving your bag of magical tools to your shoulder
*
building a a sentient tunnel
disappeared beneath the waterfall of a viridian hedge foaming upon the lawn,
blotted by twilight & in the jasmine-scented shade shadowy moss
*
envelops a stone, upright, sunk into fertile soil &
inscribed with symbols of a fertile flavour –
*
I’m not being sentimental.
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