The Apprenticeship

Awful dull to say, though I believe it, 

certain seasons are cosmic, scarce.

Believed it even then, ventured to extract 

all that I was able. One January morning

I entered the arts building and saw 

the glass door to the gallery 

open with nobody inside. 

I moved to the center of the wide space 

with notebook and pen, surrounded 

by images, intending

to write. I studied the massive 

paper works we built and mounted 

to walls with small magnets or 

suspended from the ceiling 

with yards of fishing line. The fragile

earth tones already fading. Each poem

on the apprenticeship I titled

“Caesura,” included a visible 

break in each line. I was guided  

by a confused theory of aesthetics, began desiring 

the artist as a generative experiment 

which soon became troublesome and

real. For a time I possessed 

a knowledge I could stand upon. 

Then it left. I couldn’t even remember 

it’s hue. No words came. No one walked in 

or asked what I was doing. Then, 

after a time, I left. The days

offer a few gripping motions 

in the low, still water before

dissipation, vacant space like 

the wide wall, its smooth rolled paint.