but predictable
as classical mechanics:
in the last instant,
all works of art
create themselves.
But the theistic implications
of that—
not to mention
our sense of being
directly addressed
by odd slings
of color, or the arrows
of random metaphor—
these loom so much larger
than our debit
to the vision
that, instead of delight,
or the pleasure
of reckoning,
we can't help but feel
suspicion.
