folly

to frolic
in whimsical bliss,
and burrow to deep depths
of fancy, for this

is the goal that all art
and artists will stray

just as far from the mark

to avoid any risk

by some chance, they will have

to explain it to you,

and so

explain it away.

Hark. Harken,

Hark unto me, dear.

They are cowards, each one. To the very
last each, they have underserved
none of such judgments. As if

they can't say

what the truth

of such beauty

has done. To them,

in the test, in the proof

as a rule. But maybe I'm not

one
of them,
at all.

I'm the critic

I always have been.

I must be detached

all the way,

as I fall.