ink travels on train track
while paper prefers a plane
and pens sometimes drink
in the words they have writ
while books begin to look
like print and hallowed
scripture made a song of
the cataleptic fit.

fresco lives in time wild
with the coloration of form
and painting travels like
an old man starving for a bone,
and painting travels like a
fluid river looking for a home
in the idle sea that burgeons
around the delicate mystery
of evolution's archaic prophecy
that gave what swam a little
land, that gave what flew
command of the draped blue
arena, that old sky.

pottery stilts our architecture
with vain containment of art's
gardened meadow stretched vaster
than a weathered cloud cover
upon the plane of rainy refrains,
upon the pain of many disdains,
upon the age of sculpted ideals
formulated in the veins of marble,
upon the refrain of art.