Something unprepared stirs within awareness
that jogs my consciousness as I pass through
the present scene enacting in all fairness
the simple line that renders action true.
The draughtsman-like precision of my movements
is never quite achieved, more often slurred
than not, which argues, searches for improvements,
achieving only clear intent, then blurred
by simply what occurs that focuses
the outcome as the compromise between two
perfections that points where the locus is
of what must be; and all things will be seen to
move swiftly from here on, harmoniously:
no other in the scene, or century.