Lately, straining to be decorous,
my colored pens and pencils
have begun again to crave a thin
containing outline of the kind their
blunted dried-up forebears used
to wrap around much simpler
shapes and creatures years ago.
Drawings cleaving to a limpid flow
were thought more tasteful then,
as who could say they weren’t?
Then in the middle of their restless
disbelieving strategizing heart
was bred collectively an ideological
deterrent to confining line, which
caused each sketch of scapula
and spine and clavicle and radius
and humerus and pelvis to contract
artistic osteoporosis which induced
their melt-down to a destiny which
made the formless stuff unsellable.
Be done with the amorphous!
Why pretend to hold what once
was told untellable? Crisp indelible
exactitude is now the cure they’re
very sure they must pursue.
That’s what, directing my slave
hands to hold them hovering above
the vacant sheet below, my colored
pens and pencils then went down
to do. Detail the secret view.