The Greeks invented the dust cover only to
paint it / but we think of art as an alibi
& see through it. So now what’s around us
is no longer just what’s beyond the pencil
—charm is the property of pretending this
isn’t the case. Shall I borrow a morning suit
from my uncle? What is it that makes shoes
sensible? All this gets sprayed with beer
or goes on a walking tour. Others abandon
the pretence that will swallow them whole
& organise a season ticket for their lost
appreciation that returns to bother them
like the ghost on a bad TV. But once gone
their betting-slip accuracy withers to an
unstable hunch in the morning: ‘All that
we truly admire won’t crack if left out
in the sun, although such art will trap us
even more than its consumers—as if their
attention was our only idea of light & we
were like a piece of tissue snatched from
a box of Kleenex. Thanks to this no space
remains for us to project ourselves into &
we are on the outside, forever & here more
beautiful than any illusion or act of love
perfect because not breathing on a Greek vase.