moon
Tuesday, November 30
Synopsis of a Ramble
Like something once a vine
twisted, battered, into wrought iron:
the sculptor chipping away at unhewn stone
ignores the resistences of rock...
When all is said and done what is this action?
Lazily, on this afternoon, chancing upon a rhythm,
of gazes, dancing with motes-in-a-sunbeam; thoughts of
'When all is said and done,
why:
why this simply verbose arrogance?'
Beauty exists in a forest that this Art seeks to freeze,
thaw into Creation ...
an isolated growth is
forest-free,
laughing, fleeing, Beauty.
Displacement is not necessary,
to truly discover objectivity
takes the subjective key.
Can you empty images-in-the-air with a purity of word?
Disturb the motes,
their indifferent swirl the very shape of invisible;
justify this unexpected yearning toward a certain silence,
break
a seal
unlock with the eyes,
before the mind
has touched,
something so very like the unselfconscious vine?
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