This morning the sky
is a painting by Magritte
as it is most days, no title
Ceci n’est pas un ciel.

The birds rise from
the wetland as Escher
would imagine them,
the small wetland
once a place that
might be painted by
Monet on a day when
he cared nothing
for water lillies, but now
a jungle of Gauguin.

We wait for the return
of the flocks as the sun
makes its retreat
and imagine again
a blazing sky over Arles.


Interstitial time
locked in a rent
in the continuum.
Space is bent in on itself,
a temporal Klein bottle.
Inside the event horizon
Shroedinger’s cat
is compressed
until the purr
of the naked singularity
can no longer be heard.
The Escherian path
winds slowly across
the Königsberg bridges
crossing each once
until the twins are
no longer paradoxical
but merely lonely.