“Wrong, wrong, wrong,
and so incorrect.  Cannot say enough
about the wrong of it,
the wringing of hands that follow it —

oh, it’s an opinion about something,
one voice, one view — still, such wrong
cannot be approved.  It doesn’t
fit, does it? How can such a thing

be said and let stand?  It’s about
the nature of art, isn’t it? Critical
theory?”  Labels and genres and
modalities, o my —

here’s the thing:
I’m going to go outside,
see the planets lined up with the moon,
say something of the huge cosmos

within which I’m so small.  Maybe it will
change things, maybe
it will preserve a moment.
Maybe it will matter after I die, after we all die. 

Now then, classify it
and paint it your color —
dead black, live blue.
I have better things to do.