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52 The Last Canvas If and when The paint remains wet Longer than the notion remains Stretched like the canvas and Fresh, I will put down my knife. Working wet scares the spiders, Leans tree into shadow, Folds fair winds into troubled Seas full of greens and blues And the reds that are there But unseen like the yellows. The knife still glistens With the Indian yellow, translucent And rich gold light, under The layers on layers on Layers of bad dreams And good dreams, bad Intentions and found peace, A little sleep and a nightmare Here and there. How many many eyes we Meet squinting above moving Lips, shifting alliances, odd Motives, but the eyes are enough, Aren’t they? Aren’t they? ...

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