The courage of eagles

What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth — whether it existed before or not. Johnny Keats, Letter, November 22, 1817.

Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash

A moment fled
in pain and panic
scattered, my tears 
leaping to the defence of all our
past mistakes -  an art of befuddled
imaginings of the texture
of flesh, of the value of art.

Why am I the only one
left to speculate,
left to wonder,
why
nothing lingers long enough 
for us to catch up
with the quantum remoteness
of empty space?

Withered upon the plains of delusion;
a tune springs sprightly and clear
as note after bloody note is dissipated
yet lingers
lingers in the sacred  haven of poetry.

Shadows persist, I am afraid to say,
as all the ruined art of centuries
is locked in vaults
where white men dressed in black
count coin, ceaselessly

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