Chihuly’s Glass Like Water
I’ve walked under his glass fish
and sea creatures in an art gallery
suspending my disbelief
hoping for an audible splash, wave,
a travelling bubbling musical
as seconds would allow, raising
both of my hands to catch
transparency, to feel how light
it may be, perhaps this could
be how I’d know I had died.
Nothingness
“We come spinning out
of nothingness.”
Accidental etude, a melody
repeated, twisted, inverted,
the original notes a poem
to oneself before inviting
the world to sing along
with grace and glory
to crescendo with those
who carry the ineffable
in their pockets reaching
in to remember once
upon a time they knew
the stillness before birth.
The Weekly Art?
No one named the art
of hanging laundry outside
on long lines suspended
between ancient buildings,
repetitive squares catching
wind as if to sail abroad,
sunlight painting shades
of white still nameless,
the laundress keeping
them secret among her
spray bottles and bleaches.
Only she knows the lifetime
and durability of cotton, how many
pastel undies and t shirts on a line,
the strength of clothespins, springy
or the simple willowy sticks, people
shaped to withstand the ballet
of billowing sheets in hot sun,
their rounded heads grasped
to grip impermanence.
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