Dear Everyone Occupying Space at This Moment,
Are objects made of poetry? Without doubt. What else is inside a thing? What other potentiality could there be? What would there be that will not rust, combust, or decompose? If you counter they are made of atoms, I say; there is your proof! Little things we cannot see, tiny theoretical impulses are poetry itself!
Here is a poem on some small, un-identified cut brass chips that came to me.
You gave me tiny shiny squares of golden light.
I sent you back a sewn order of gold.
I had to cheat, too, with glue, but I'll never tell.
And they were so crooked and poorly aligned; Agnes Martin
would have died again, even as I thought of her when I arranged them in their
sloppy,
messy,
that's life grid.
