Life in a Cezanne

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This morning is angles and sunlight.

A fresh mango on the counter leans

into the banana curving around the pear

and all occur in doubles and threes

spilling out of the plate supposed to hold them.

The table and the frame’s edge appear as

curves where I expect lines–

they are not boundaries,

but like the semi-permeable membrane of a cell,

letting good things in and rejecting the bad.

This place is melting borders, sliding fixtures,

and every one thing moving into the next.

I can lie here still on the floor, or on the couch–

anywhere really, as long as I surrender

my control of vision to the colors around me,

and the humid breeze through the open window.

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