L’Art Poor You

Art will use you
To make more art.
You’ll think your art

Is art you made.
Sure. You make art
Like cells make you,

Like spores make life,
Like death makes worms,
Like gods make hymns.

Bare Air

To the one side, you’re no one.
To the far side, you’ve done well.
You’ve heard which means who you are.
You’ve read which comes down to chance.

In the short run, both are true,
Luck and gifts on the one side,
Hard work and hard luck the next.

In the long run, luck runs out,
Bad or good. Hard work, fine traits
Might go on, but not as you.
And they might leave with you, too.

Strange that both these rules hold true,
One fine line through win and lose,
Grand tomb or bare air for you.

Horse Fly

There is a fly.
There is a horse
The fly will die.
The horse will, too.

There is a chance
The horse dies first.
Flies wait for this.
They buzz like prayer.

There are short odds
One fly can last
To eat dead horse
And leave fly eggs.

But fly wings sing.
The horse tail swings.
Sun’s on the grass.
Stars burn all night.