--- N A T A S H A   S A J É

Can teapots pass for art, if sufficiently awkward  

or plates 
with a poisonous glaze?

I keep dreaming of making things that might, like the beveled 
edge of a mirror,  compound value:

method antinomic,  attitude questioning
result, still sometimes birdshit—

in such dreams I am always responsible
for the distance between burnt umber and brown

the roots concealing themselves
in the pilled wool of my pullover

my eyes a soldered bridge 
mute before the questions, what’s it for

how long will it last—if irony’s passè
shall we bring on beauty, the kind that has absorbed its opposite?

If not why not hovers over
virtuoso, tour de force & trompe l’oeil

but who can know the depth of even one’s own heart—
access is guarded by a hard flame.

My ever-breaking promise of bliss:

If it holds water, is it art?

No matter how the poplars hold back the hill
as straight as any trees could be

they sway, as a mountain can appear the only one 
or a link in a colossal chain.

One writes in a trance, the other applies Teutonic discipline:

shouldn’t it look easy?

Let’s varnish usefulness for long duty—
Christmas in the tropics—let’s festinate 
the yellow daisies into bloom, so icy in their blown glass—