Have I lied to myself about art?
Everything can’t be art. Bird not bird
but driftwood roughed up by the sea,
forgotten, found, by one who desires
a gnarled reminder of form, and flight.
I consider my own similes—gardens, trees,
an orchard still rooted, light marine
in the blown air, fruit drunken on the swirl,
like everything that leads up to a legend
of leaving. Poor driftwood, poor
bird, with your premise of wings.