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.