Beneath the choreography of
Canopy and wind; we see
the source of paper

And in the tusk of grand
And fanciful beast, the
Makings of a paperweight

Let it press against
A sterile surface, then, these
Lines of irony, and ire – before
They’re given to the wind that feeds
Our hours to its fire:

Of all endowed a beating
Heart, You prove
Uniquely heartless

Alone to You the
Gift of art- and You, of
All, most artless.


Leave a Reply