A work of art is a world of signs, at least to the poetís nursery
bookshelf sheltered behind the artistís ear. I recall each little
motto howling its ins and outs to those of us who might as
well be on the moon illu illu illu
Etce ce Tera. Forgotn quiet all. Nobody grows old and crafty
here in middle air together. Long ago ice wraith foliage.
I had such fren
Our mother of puddled images fading away into deep blue polymer.
Seaweed, nets, shells, fish, feathers
About this poem:
"The prose poems in this series are dedicated to Paul Thek (1933-1988) and Isabella Stewart Gardner (1840-1924). They were inspired by Thekís recent Retrospective at the Whitney called Diver and a month spent as an artist-in-residence in the Gardner Museum in Boston. Mrs. Gardner may be our first American Installation artist."