Gone.
It paints itself.
It's not me.
I'm not here.
"Mark" is nowhere, but "something" is left, just the same.
I am in the sound of brushes over canvas, or a breeze through Casuarina leaves.
I'm in the gold on the edge of a leaf, in the green of a fresh blade of grass.
Now, I am in the sound of paint being mixed. Of matter and atoms being moved.
Here, but,
Everywhere,
and,
every nowhere.
I am here, but Mark has gone.
Lost in the making of marks,
of making magic.
The ultimate disappearing act.
To paint, to vanish in front of my own eyes.
Gone.
But.
I AM, still, here.
