Three drawings face me in a strange parade –
they somehow just got made by something
in whatever gooses me to deal with what appalls.
Just now, while workmen ripped large holes in my
New York apartment’s walls, replaced two pipes, then
plastered all the blight up so I might return to the illusion
of supernal happy Fate I like my home to promulgate –
three drawings of a narrative I wish I could tease out
came seizing my capacities to wring them to their
purpose and their pleasure. I look – see only surface –
have no notion what they’re doing whatsoever.
Except to know beyond all measure that in all thisfull fat midst of strife, drawing saves my life.