Fight it, if you like.
It's still going to happen.
It's not
that it's meaningless. Meaningless—
you could do
easily. Unfortunately,
it's you—
staring down another faultless
surface every morning,
watching it
defy you, with that indomitable
prestige, called
The Way Things Are,
to improve somehow upon
its chaste perfection
with your prejudiced
and hypothetical burdens,
to somehow
trade places
with an uninjured rectangle.
It's you—
you
verses art.
But—just the thought of that
and it's like you've
already set to the task.
No greater pressure.
How can you lose?
Perhaps only ever
by endeavoring not to.
