no, to the left

Elephants, giraffes, hyraxes all in oil,
seventeen stroke techniques repeating an image you swore
was prophylaxis psychodelica, Ms. Brown.

Was Escher's carp fillet for the smokehouse too?
One wanton afternoon the repetitious representation
coiled steelroped into vidience backgrounds.

Absurd, neither surreal nor real and un
abstract, a play; only lines, colored shadow
and ridges. Strokes one through eighteen.

Number thirteen was missing. Ms. Brown
you said, "Do you spy the shadows there?"
But never... Act and omission my reply.

An easel with an unbound window, wrist held back
under no wood palatte at all, left fingers
knife-ready, before which Bob Ross hesitates.


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