cement.
a painter just came by and found the artwork finished.
nothing anyone could see except the artist,
primed to locate what and where the art was.
she said a few words, nodded to herself, and left.
what about the paint that might have made the surface different
from its gray?
it was as though her mind desired it.
it was as though the gray met her perception of an art.
would she agree to given instruction on deciphering
a path, a highway, or a view beyond the tops of trees?
indifference would be some kind of repeat dream
or revisioning.
finding the artwork when the work has been completed
by another is an art itself.
it would be worth asking so many questions,
each of which would yield an answer that could be a painting,
would be perfectly enough.
I want that skill.
I want new paintings.
I want a coffin for the pieces to be held.
where they are certified to be regarded
as safe art for all eternity.
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