by Gideon Burton
Unlike the coats of paint that thinly stack
their history (the door was brown, then red...),
the layers I've detected won't relax
in mute obscurity. They pause, then spread,
at times like liquid dye that stains the light,
at times like cloth that bunches as it drops,
and other times the layers bind or fight
or squeeze and squeeze until the squeezing pops.
I've seen that layer one too many times;
I've shuffled that one deeper in the deck;
I thought I had unlocked that layer's primes,
Some things I hope that layer won't reflect.
Like skin that grows acute or dull in turns
Some layers cool, while others twist and burn.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr -