A fan blows rhythm into wood;
Across the room stirs fluttered paper;
Vibrations travel far into distant jungles.
Sylvia Plath said it; trapped inside the mind
Nothing you can say or do to get out of that fertile futility forest
Except to lose it.
The politics of a line fascinates the artist,
Astonishes the viewer with simplicity,
Of message, method and mood–peace face.
Three folded into one chair–Mamie, flanked by two little granddaughters–summer in France,
My two girls embraced in awkward submission, forced smiles,
Posing for another camera off center.
A floating glass bubble filled with silver and brown sand,
Hemp roped from the ceiling,
Inside crowd rocks, pebbles, earth, shells and one dead succulent.
An art fair in Santa Monica, a day before many moons ago,
When time belonged to browse and easy chatter,
Not like now 20 years later when sparse, efficient words work us through the hours.