If Art would only talk it would, at last, reveal
itself for what it is, what we all burn to know.
As for our certainties, it would fetch a dry yawn
then take a minute to sweep them under the rug:
certainties time-honored as meaningless as dust
under the rug. High time, my dears, to listen up.
Finally Art would talk, fill the sky like a mouth,
clear its convulsive throat while flashes and crashes
erupted as it spoke—a star-shot avalanche of
visions in uproar, drowned by the breathy din
of soundbites as we strain to hear its august words:
"a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z."