the art, itself

A parson draws a
circle in the sand --
it is the Sistine

Chapel on a Sunday;
if it rains, the Grand
Duchy of Lancaster.

The granular space between
the edges is a paternoster
in simple granulated form.

Nearby, the gasping sea foam
grasps, perhaps, itself as
a transitory mircale

of attention, a fame
of sound attending it. Fast,
now, slower, then, the man

whose case committed the circle
frames a plan where he may stand:
the waning green, the waxing blue.

The art, itself, the art: make do.

Back to Issue 1, 1999

The Pen and Anvil Press


ISSN 2150-6795
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