This practice
does not make perfection
but a percentage
lingers with something special.
There are notes everywhere
like atoms of crumpled
origami sound making the shape
of scribble.
Misaligned,
a cacophony
anyone can blow or bang, shout and wail,
I am trying to make some music
but I cannot flesh out
the transition.
I was always fondest of shoes,
Like endings.
I wonder, while I look at all the
scattered pieces,
amble across the landscape
of my desk like deer pathways
is why I cannot seem to finish...
Artwork by Hans Holbein (1497-1543), 'Studies of the hands of Erasmus of Rotterdam' in [Public domain].
