Still branch, laciniate leaf.
The book read, "Susurrant."
But there is no sound;
this is a photograph
of a maple on a hill.
If we are to relegate
this still life
to a frozen laugh
not even a sharp
bark might punctuate
midnight blue on white.
Pigments, paper, daft
counterfeits. Unreal
order -- the mind eliminates
chaos from concrete:
static sliced in half.
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