. . . Gone!
they found the old man
a century ago--
still, inert,
cold against his canvas;
and now
sundry gallery-goers
peer in studious fuddle
at these art-bursts
of dead genius,
his frenzies frozen
into dessicated evidence
on cracked ochre canvas.
Precognition?
Prescience?
Gratitude, perhaps--
as he exhaled his "Thank you"s
heavenward,
to his own masters,
far beyond the dusty skylight
somewhere,
at the terminus of mystery
where art is sport.
Author notes
Written March 12th, 2004
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