The Artist as an Exhibitionist

March 7, 2015

2 am. I stand outside. The snow and ground have been drenched in ink, and, using the soft solar light, an unseen artist directs the flow and curved black lines fill the meadow and my pale legs are crossed with black lines and the snow melts and there is the sound of running water.

This is a magic mushroom dream or the full moon in spring.

I pick up a slender, long twig and write “Betsy,” in the snow.  We made love on the roof of her mother’s house, in the snow in Minneapolis.

The meadow is a nursery filled with underearth voices, babies of a trillion species stirring, for the slow winter cadence of the planet’s heart has sounded the alarm and the drumbeat quickens.

A red fox arches its back and leaps in snow piles, and the undersnow squalling tells the tale and the fox takes tender meat into its mouth and vanishes. It will leave a pile of bones by its lair.

This is an aglianico wine dream or the full moon in spring.

I scrub myself with sandpaper snow. The woodpile below is as busy as a Chicago apartment building: rustling, scurrying, snarling, chattering residents responding to undersky magnetic pulses. Then clouds veil the solar light and there is silence then the clouds unroll like waves and there is beautiful music.

And down the bluff a rushing of water, a swelling of water and a barge sounds its foghorn. The river seeks higher ground. North Woods ice is kayaking the valley.

This is me dreamasleep on my swaying feet or the full moon in spring.

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