Wessel Wessels

Distant sounds from the stadium

Days here lean
against my favorite tree
growing shrinking shadows
across a canvassed lawn
I watch the painting in progress
observe every hour's slowness
how the blank face of this building
- the bricks' constant change
red to black and back again
we entered the doors deceived
and roll out on wheelchairs
comfortably patched
under short blankets
snug from reaching for
concrete moments
and distant people
time becomes confusing
I borrow from memory
rise up stretch out
and lean against their dreams

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