Monday, June 15, 2020


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.

For true beauty 
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.