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Afternoons spent painting days he wishes to see.
Covering up madness, he thinks –

We’re in what’s in movies.
We get by, a whirl of free.
Baits us, bites us, starts to sink.

We’re in what’s in movies.
She and I, the world and me,
what’s drawn on these ancient screens.

In movies the sky’s like that.
In movies that guy’s like that.
Right now’s from weird paused movies.
Film couldn’t come up with cardboard crowds.
What the hell is going on?

Sunsets, they don’t come around.
Fireside skies now melt the ground.
The smoke, it turtles in the air
and blocks any signal that they still care.

We’re in what’s in movies.
Wonder why, destroyed the scene.
Blew it up before the thing.

We’re in what’s in movies.
Learned to fly, don’t need a breeze.
What is it that they can’t see?
He thinks.

He’s painting windows from the inside.
Mixing up his own outside.
These days it’s distance on his mind,
draws railroads that merge and combine
from time to time.
Watercolors water under a moon,
a fin flying in the sunset
over a tide crawling just this side of out there.

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