.
.
A drawing
plants itself on paper,
waits
for a useful assist. What is
its
status? How does it stand,
coming out
of my pencil and hand?
What do
I do with this thing
.
that I
stencil, erase, cover up
and cross
out, underline, undermine,
circle
round and resist, and toss out,
then take
back in the flick of a wrist?
What do
I do with this thing I do?
.
Should
I be its spy? Or ought I to spy
on it? Cry
for or at it, lie to or on it?
Ply it and
dye it the colors it wants,
then dunk
it in colors it doesn’t?
Clapping
her hands, she begins
.
now to
dance with the bird
and the
thing becomes not what
it wasn’t,
but what it had always
been:
what it is. Absurdly spot on,
unduly complete,
with an avatar soul
so replete
it resounds! But what I’ve
to do with
the business confounds.
The girl
and the bird (seeming blest)
clap and
whirl nonetheless.
Something
at least has done its best.
.
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