As a child my parents gave a string line to me.
It was knotted in a huge ball with ends I couldn't see.
I was ordered to untangle the line then to wind it right.
I struggled throughout my childhood with their Gordian fright.
When the task was finished the line was
long, and thin, and white.
I knew just what to do with it; I tied it to a kite.
To this day I love the feeling of flying as that height.
But if there is any line I detest it's
long, and thin and white.
Fortyish now I have chosen
since that time, lines
painted in vibrant hues
with brushes six feet wide,
loaded and sloppy with
pigment that splats off either side.
From an expansive angle
I find it's in the nature
of fine lines to tangle.



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