RAUSCHENBERG BLINKS

Wincing,
he thinks,
this is it—

it is
time to
speak

up—the
perfect
feeling

does
not
exist.

Unimaginable
hypotheses
can never

be tested.
The most 

extraordinary

thing he can 

picture still
demonstrating,

is an airport
of light
particles,

a scaffolding
for shadows,
a homely

receptacle
for pure
white silence—

none of
that black
variety, he

figures, since
every soul living
is already

going around
staring pretty
unconscionably

hard at that
kind, maybe
fifteen-to-

twenty
times a
minute.