I am grabbing the pink knob; it’s been squeezed
in my hand through the entirety of this project, this journey,
damp with sweat: hard work, hard grip.
The knob flies from air to paper, an unconscious slam
and quickening rub echoing
the need to get rid of a wrong mark, a line outside of the border.
Why had she taken it away from me before,
the rock that could rid an entire city of remorse? I stop.
The inevitability of mistakes lives in nature.
It builds its own school, in the city of a mind. A tree,
shedding its wisdom of leaves, of mistakes,
into the future.
Why does the pink sandstorm get to sweep the secret sorrow of this sapling?
A reversal of time, perhaps. Under the control
of human grip, the soft comfort of rock erodes,
crushing books, absorbing trees, bits of rubber dust swept away
with now-rotten leaves.
Gone. The gray graphite once glazed over an empty lot. Not empty
anymore though, despite an erasure sought—
once marked, the canvas is forever imprinted.
One feels indents in the ground, the history of walls once penciled.
Ruins live on as ruins, immortal, never forgotten,
despite yet another failed attempt
The white lot of this city has been crumpled—plate tectonic and earthquake resided along the sandstorm of pink, as they feasted on time.
this was not earth’s command, no.
Only natural regret can power this human disaster.
Pencil in hand, the heavy potential
of erasure weighs down this most common utensil.
Do I eat or not?