You want art out there,
something not
inside you, something
other, different
from those things
you can do, or think,
different from craft,
want an art
on that bedroom wall,
some van Gough, David,
da Vinci,
some object, shows that
you like the good things,
pretty things,
or smart things, or help
remind those beauty
in deep cracks
sometimes see on walks,
from eye corners, or
off windows,
sky from mirror view.
If art is outside,
separate,
feels legitimate,
realer, object says,
I am good,
I am beauty, listen,
I make you good too.
Beat down that
craft inside, push out
itch to make and do.
Is enough, says art,
you see me and like,
or wish to have me,
or work hard and make
more like me, that real
value in cotton rag
canvas for canvas.

But all you art, all,
even your most,
is clay, rock, water,
fiber, soot, no life,
dead after
drawing forth from in.
If leaves patterns fall
by windwork
in the old woodlot
and no person walks
to see it,
then if the painting
dies finally, mold
takes it, paint
chips to nothing, then
what is art really?
The only thing
on the paper is
graphite. Image comes
when we see.
All the great arts fade,
and craft inside us
bright remains.