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I Saw The Artist Who Saved Your Life

Permanently hung up in a gallery in our city
if one can call a city theirs

He was at sea
and from the sea the hills were a typography
of a wish upon a dandelion

but I “don’t think the lion’s smiling
when he his incisors shows”

Dandelion Taraxacum
from the Arabic tarashuq scattering
dispersal whose leaves if chewed
make you pee

The hills appeared as a palette of words
that tastes of tremor

a dopamine shuffle on pond face
unstilled by zephyr
and drawing in drowning

It was raining chalk non stop
up and down the shore