there is a story I tell:

a memory recommissioned, a purpose served

to justify the heavy, the tug of the heavy duvet over your ears.

as one does I asked her why anyone would want to look at my photographs of trees;

to be creative is to feel more deeply she says to have sensitivities that others don’t,

I am responsible to myself she says

Thoroughly flattened.

Are you sure you want to leave this meeting?

Yes I want to be a painter I want to behave as time

gently meddle destructively

hushing the sea, demanding the expanse, startling awake

(there is a heath, I am lucky, it does not belong to me)

In other words: as a painter I would walk into or perhaps just near that sea, inexorably

conquer time and all of its extrinsic finality

with iterative shutter adjustments

uttering until you understand that

this could be something if I let it

when I have something to say, I’ll say it.