When I was young I knew what art was.
Not amorphous, not something done

delta-like but a straight shot
from the eye to the canvas.

It was just done. Sing? Sing.
Write? Write. Paint, draw, play.

Write the script and paint the settings.
Out-try Tchaikovsky until I found out

he was gay. Art was not and was science.
It was a thing found apart. A minnow

in the sky like a helicopter. A black spot
gliding on dusk’s (or today’s) transitory gradient.