Not love of flesh
nor fabric, nor chocolate.
Not quest. Not mechanic.
Not prick of finger.

Not transformation. Despair becomes container—
       of the Wind or Mind—
shifts caution beyond design

to interiors. The architecture
       of those interiors.

Not hair nor skin nor candlelight.
Dispensary depot of sky,
the view from a window, roof tops.
       A runner passing
and then another
and then another.

The first returns. Not chair.
Not desk. Not lamp.
       An arched door pushed open
       by a bicycle back wheel.

The cross section of sky and shaftway
       constitutes a fruitful day,
a meeting on the street. Knowledge of
the smaller parts of industry. Of wire
       of yellow, of trombone.

__

Oppen and Dickinson hover around this poem written in a moment hopeful that art will always out, in whatever vehicle it can attach itself to. I've learned it will take its time getting wherever its going. I often sit and think and make nothing. Alternatively: [ART]