You fail to see that all art is vain, and the artisan vainest of all,
unless he stays anonymous or hides by a plumed name. Then
our vanes cannot see the rain inside, there will only be this
shy glide of fortitude, an anonymous phoenix’s swoon to
vague borrowings, own sorrowing, or careening to ohs.
But don’t fail to see that all art is also finally owner-less,
the artisan a slave, even as he stays eponymous to his work
or arrives with a Moses cane, waning soon to be not actually
a bane to himself, but the boon to glad attitudes in helixes
crooning big arrowings, holy narrowings, caroming off arghs.
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