If you can imagine!
If you can image.
We walked through the art museum scrutinizing
exhibits. They spoke in barks, gurgled
unintelligibly, or wisely kept their peace.
The copper shaman danced too slowly
for me to catch the rhythm.
How unlike the world outside
these snippets, these gimcracks that festered
inside studios of inward turning.
What would emerge if the paint was scraped
from the windows, if the curtains were thrown
aside, if the blinds were raised
to the sun, to the contrary Northern Mocking-
Imagine the artist cast
adrift amongst the mess
of neighbors –
what would it signify?
Is art escape or turmoil?