I would like to paint you
In pictish blue paints
With my fingers
I sould paint
A landscape on you
Becoming a Monet of the flesh
I can envision
The whole of this country
Superimposed on your flesh
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About the poem...I don't remember writing it, nor do I remember why above it I wrote "VIII. Adjustment". It doesn't seem to have much to do with the poem itself (at least not on the surface), nor does it look like it was ment to be the title, but it is precisely for these reasons that it is going to be the title.