COMMINGLING OF NATURES
And all that tumult. All that roaring.
I swear we see things that are not and
simply call them real : that time-worn
essence, now so all around us.
I walk 57th Street, end to end, and
see nothing but the striving for natures
of human form and silt - those miserable
self-portraits all lining the street. At the
Art Student's league I peer in to see
where I'm headed. Oh God, someone
recognizes me and I must say hello. The
lady looks like a frog, and she seems to
have grown so old. She goes to museums
on Tuesday to avoid the crowds?
Well, that's what she said and I'll
have to accept. And then the door
swings shut and she is gone. The
noise rises - streetscapes come alive.
One could not paint a still-life here
even if one tried.
Were you out at morning's light?
The tumult, the commingling of natures.