a fluid mosaic
slapped onto a rusted
iron anvil,
hammered down upon with
increasing ferocity,
but it does not bend,
it does not splash,
it does not so much as
move.
I try to make sense of
it all,
of the reasons why I’ve
done what I’ve done,
seeking some sort of
underlying logic,
a noble, mysterious
truth,
or perhaps just
counterfactual justifications
overlapping simpler
explanations,
a steel rod
that spends no time in
the forge
cannot be manipulated
by the blacksmith;
perhaps it is the same
with any craft,
with even us artists,
who need time for
pressure to build
before we can have a
say
in the how and when of
our creativity’s release
