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.