I can see modern art
like black ink thrown against the clouds
and sky of the morning
a blob or two and lots of cast-off spatter
like the aftermath of a mad night
of Jackson Pollock heaving paint
in whatever way the spirit and his rage would move him
but it’s only what’s spilled out of blood vessels
into my vitreous humor
to coagulate and float around
in some of the water of which we are largely constituted
or shards of tissue
torn away from the retina
as it is wont to do
and is due to happen at my lucky age
maybe just from turning my head
like a million times before
but this art wanting to hang here
in front of everything I encounter
is a secret from the world
no one else gets to see it
how it swoops and sways across the sky right this minute
across the walls of my kitchen
across my face in the mirror
no one except the occasional ophthalmologist
if she moves in close and works
the quiet magic only she can do
with her special skills and tools and touch
peering into me all the way
through the window of the soul
opened just a crack
She’s trying to appreciate these abstract strokes
of contemporary art
I’ve been complaining about.


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