O, how we all like to talk
in low voices
in front of large paintings—
or gawk at mountains
burnished with sunlight
and exclaim
we've been struck
by the elegance—
but this cannot be right.
would not ever
put words in our mouths
or smiles on our faces;
It could not look
so familiar.
When it appears,
it must appear
for the very first time;
it is not a construct
bridgeable by simile.
Neither could it be recognized,
for it is not returning here.
Beauty is as stardust—
it belongs only
where it has come from—
never our midst,
always somewhere else.
