I like a poem because it's not like a painting.Because I'll confidently cradle something
stainless; hold the exceptional eye of it,which is sarsen grey. It's accurate masonry.A poem is trapezoidal.It will sit on the ground, you can walkaround, point prosodicright at the solidity of the stanza.The straight line in a meter, go -run your thumb assuredlyall along the perfect surface;Any line with a defectlies forgotten in the quarry.That's why I like a poem. At leastin theory, shaped pure andfine-finished as a citadel.But I wonder if Machu Picchu thinks- or even knows - about the faultsin her foundation. She's sitting up thereon the nerve of a natural defect,and she don't give a damn.So I did some painting, to be like the Inca.To be painted, myself, whimsical-like.And the acrylics were so alien, theywere such a clamour of colour, theywere howling! All striving -Idiots! - mucking and muddlingand setting themselves too previous.I almost kicked over the easel.But, like the Inca, I learneda bit about building. About drainage.I began to see the sky bloom purple,fruit ripening in stone,an uncertainty of green in the grass.I built something new, and I found
I did not so much mind the cracks.
Okay, it's a little skew whiff.My brush, he forgets the meter;
only knows a ruffled rhythm
of colour, that might?
breathe life to a sarsen stone.
Even, perhaps, in purple tones,refute the sky and its blueness.So step back, squint your eyes;It looks just like a poem.