Each new day whether standing by railroad tracks
waiting for the freight train to creep through so I could
get my next installment of freshman seminar's article
at the leaflet shop or going to Acorn Studio, transported
with twenty new ways of seeing the world, focused for
a moment together in the high cathedral where we sit
with sticks of charcoal, gradations of an agreed still-life.
Socially, I am no more famous than I am in my art.
I cross paths with Friedrich Nietzsche at the beginning
of spring semester. I feel I have never opened so difficult a book.
I progress by two opposing views. First, "What is this clay?
Why are my hands going to alter it?
Why will it not do what I want it to do?"
Second, "There, even I can see that is a change
in the beauty of the subject."
(Dream) I tell the notable people in my life that I go to the opera
early every morning. Of course I don't, but to make sure they believe
me I take the sand from outside the opera house and scatter it
below my window.