isn't. Not yet in the editing phase. More like a salad being composed and the final touches yet undiscovered. In the doing, a poem like salad gets done. Gets served. Here the writing is on the inside of an eyelid -- sparks of light and luscious comforting graphite. Trust me, on the plate (not shown) there will be hue-vibrant tomatoes & yellow peppers. Perhaps, pea shoots.
