Even before the dawn birds
shudder themselves awake,
you rise, breathe yourself into focus,
and set out the practiced tools:
brushes in a repurposed can;
work-worn board; edge-taped stock; 
the remnant colours of every past endeavour.
And then set into this radiant work.

No still life. Brushes turn electric.
Blue plots its way across white,
turning lines into eyes, into lips.
Green turns yellow turns red and
the whole canvas catches fire.
In the universe of what to paint,
everything is raising its hand,
everything is singing your name

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