Art is the measure of its own luxuriance.
Not a litany of petty strictures
to argue and maintain as crucial variants,
but a canvas on which we paint pretty pictures,
map out our journey from base to plateau,
from solitude to solitude of land and sea.
Or unpainted relics taking us for Watteau
that consecrate themselves to you and me.
You’ll find them scattered along a row of stations
spread out on the vaulted parchment where the sun is –
a book of unwritten indications
with a map to help you find out where the fun is.
Where bloom the sweeter blooms of an unlettered age,
redolent of all things except the page.
But the best things are most found wherever one is.
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