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Six ’O clock and it is time to repeat ,on scale, joint walks, up and yonder.The overcast sky says much nothing.We understand life beside the tree.

Repeat the tree and the old dusty car with the same old names washed off in yesterday’s rain, waiting in new dust ,for the same names, heart and arrow.

You looking for repeat arches in art?I have them plenty in my digital box, in old tombs where angry sultans lie in endless repetitive arches of beauty where men vanish in trees at the end.

Our walks are repeat feet under shoes occupying space, little by little, in sky.The feet shuffle slowly, one behind one.Eight ’O clock is time to repeat on scale,a bus of people on rods, lunch boxes touching sweaty bodies tantalizingly.


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