Path 

The cruelty she administers is rote. Casual. 

Past risk. A clicking in the back of the head. 

As from the peak of the spine. Just off 

from where the center may or may not be.

She never listens to music. Couldn’t 

ever find the right song. Too many notes 

in the songs around her. Too much at once 

in conflict. The ideal thing, she thinks, 

must be a single note progressively rising 

in pitch for three to eight minutes or so. 

The only songs she found approaching this 

were rendered electronically. Possessed

none of the resonance of wood or organ. 

She moves through an unmanaged tract 

of green. The tight path before her.

Gray hexagonal pavers buttressed 

by wire fencing on each side. Keeping 

the wild out. Despite the wish to believe 

herself in some bare expanse, she is aware 

the present environment is largely fabricated. 

Sight of the pavers broadens 

an already severe demand for precision. 

Momentum. Continuity. Since her youth 

she has longed to paint massive 

abstract compositions. Color Field. 

Endgame. She's hid this desire 

from herself for as long as she was able. 

Thrust dissipates gradually, 

then all at once. The decision to stop 

counting is like finding a window 

and jumping out of it. At home she tears 

a sheet of paper from the bolt, more long 

than wide. A scroll. A tower. Beginning

to work, she intends to make the paper more 

neutral. Covers the whole thing with green.