Seeing Kusama’s “Fireflies in the Water”

One steps into sixty seconds of infinite space.
Now is always now, so
sixty seconds is plenty.
Always always held in the palm of the banal is this capacity.
I’ve felt the fist, the closed hand,
often enough, the “Pshaw”, the “don’t be silly.”
Here, late afternoon sun hits my cheek.
This page glows, forthrightly illuminated,
like domes of the phlox are lit from inside.

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