But I ask you, what is art?
Form and freedom,
frame and vine,
flesh and veil.
Intangible qualities attach
to a habit, a pattern, a lattice
that allows the unforeseen,
a mad brush, a breath of soul.
If your soul were a vision,
what colour would you be?
Warm or cool, could you name it?
If tangible what texture,
silken or bristled?
And what shape?
Are you a swan or a brindled bat?
Give me a frame to suit you:
Are you circular or square?
A triangle perhaps.
And as for composition,
do you dominate the foreground,
or is that you
slipping away to the left?
Only a detail of your face remains.
Only your finger with that curious ring.
And then you're gone.
A memory — that's all.
I recall the day — that hour, that light —
when your voice first touched me,
the imprint irrevocable.
Love, I discern the edge of you, glowing and hazy.
I might force the search for a definite line.
I might make of you an image never dreamed.
But love unfree is never love to me.
