The artist at work in her studio
the sweat running down dusted forearms
the sun shining in through plated windows and the artist
barely breathing. So barely

hiccups

happen

hic

ups

interrupting
the artist

from the deep.
Tunneling
castles, cascading seashores,
she wakens
to find the dust on her forearms
the sweat carving it’s ant path
days having passed
and the present alive.

Reading her work,
she sighs to wonder
the quality
the depth, transparency, disregard,
disillusionment and ignorance.

Better, perhaps
before
then after the hiccups.

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