Conjure something up, then,
Reach your hands to the back of your skull and grasp it, uproot it,
Put something just in front of you hummingbirding there
Let it eddy upon itself, swarm into itself, let it take form like a flock in wind.
What is it? Something small enough to fit in a fist, soft enough to refigure.
Ball it up and float it just there to look at. It is something of art. Something. Anything
Of art. Scrape your mindfingers along frames of the National Gallery, break that vase
On your knee and look at the shard. Squeeze your eyes and forge a monument.
No. None of these will float. None of these will hover enough to pour words over—
To cast in this copper. To break open. Art, dipped in flaking plaster, plaster
Smoothed, plaster filled, copper cooled, and there— There is art. It begins
Shining, becomes smooth, becomes dimensional, becomes unsettling and inaccurate.
Oxidizes, decays, presses on the ground beneath it. Pick it up.
Spin it. Throw it. Put a plaque above it. Break a window with it.
What was this art? It is its copper imitation. It has sharp edges from imperfect imprinting
It almost has an echo of that original shape. I couldn’t catch the shimmering thing
So I grip something else, completely.


One thought on “Mold

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