You and your dim accuracy, head lolled loose eyes whitened and widened till the pupils blink out. Words come clipped, ransomed love letters read like shopping lists, or obituaries. Call this a grey life, the air sucked clear your mouth a pursed funnel, but I am the culprit. Found the bruises of your hands, like marble sponge, cold as stone the heat slipping over you without warming. In the well shade you sit while I sink deeper, darker for the waterline. Come up spitting dust and excuses. Shoulder a shallow cloak of indifference, already the hem unpicked by those grasping hands always tapping rapping at the weakest point. Feel them at my temples tonight, tomorrow, today, at the weakest point always tapping away.
Ah, I’m really hoping I got this right. The five Samuel Greenberg charms that I used for my response are as follows: dim accuracy / grey life / marble sponge / the well shade / shallow cloak. I tried to emulate Greenberg’s abstract style (though not quite as drastically as he employs the abstract).
Last of the soft fruits, these blooms are redder, fatter, skins splitting sticky on a palm. Drew my tongue along a lifeline, caught what was left beaded between the creases of flesh. Half a gasp at the tingling, spring still weaving magic as the trees catch fire. Time trick of seasons blurring, like unexpected heat under the winter sun.