In the simplest
glance or a word
people stop being
two dots floating
on a blank page.
Out of their black depths,
they suddenly spill
themselves across
this white abyss
of mundane days
and lonely lives.
Some relationships are
simply strung between
the dots and hang like
the thin string strung
between two rusty cans.
Some rush like rivers, racing,
running their course as they
spill themselves
and render exchanges of wonder,
curving, crooked, long, short,
where the points are gone
and only their Line remains.
Loving lines lie scattered
crossing this canvas
and in the depths and
shades of their meeting
a greater dialogue emerges.
If only we lonely points knew
in all our out pouring
in all our self-spilling
we were painting a Portrait.
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