- Vol. 07
- Chapter 08
Think of Seurat, insistent as a sewing machine,
woodpeckering a canvas with his brush,
needling blips of color into his penciled outline
to saturate a landscape with confetti
the way a telegraph operator hole-punches silence.
That’s how I imagine lines emerging
from the illustrator’s pen,
stitching walls to floorboards,
threading bars on birdcages,
crosshatching wire cubes over the heads of kittens,
stacking towers into a corner as lightly as hatboxes.
When the room is crowded as a closet
the customer awakens from his reverie
to find the shop has sprouted around him,
fast as frost on a window.