Image: From Pixabay, thanks to JDGRAPHICS63
after Joan Miró & Surrealism
Us, like Miró, spearing any stick-in-the-brush with a dance that won’t be classified. Rhythms and other elements of days fake familiarity. Only the birds hang upside down or float with ink-dipped feathers— carousels— in brilliant fields of blue blood. We're clay forms sculpted to pillows by night: our faces hieroglyphs on a vase, with stars dead around us, our shards spilling into primary yarns of dark, new language.
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