Poem – Tom Weston

An art historian explains 
how time began

What seemed to be her effortless best.
Speaking was her art,
the silk

purse she grafted from the sow’s ear of
discontent,

what
she found congenial.

It’s all about me,
she knew, artist and index both.

With no investigation the art vanishes.
Eventually,

an understanding that only the explanation
matters:

the art is in the explanation.

She cut out the middleman,
rehearsing

her clever phrases
until she was as fluent as a flashing light,
and as well regarded.

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