Between my bureaucratic brain
and your bucolic train of thought
are shady spots of time called art.
Will anything so uncertain
in the world in which we live
remain intact? You say it will
though I cannot believe.
If we, behind your velvet curtain,
could hide a vague voluptuous idea
of our own interrupted works of art
then, I should be relieved.
The beautiful, sublime, at times
suspend my mythopoetic piety,
and autocorrect our cringing crimes
of imperfection, influence, anxiety,
of lasting lyric listlessness, a sense
of loneliness immense.
I swear and pray, in silky solitude, perusing Baudelaire,
and sup again a cup of emptiness, ennui, a symphony
once gold, now cold, before our time is up and down I go
and fade away into the restless realm of art for art
as though – I know – nothing really falls apart.