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. Share this:Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens


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