Drama of the Arts We Aren’t

We have no room in our rooms
For the wet complexities
Of your personalities,

All your tinted characters.
We are grids. We work in lines,
Black lines, economical

In our worst profligacy.
We’re like Antara’s drawing,
Incapable of being

Any art we aren’t. You dream
Us, literally dream us
Some nights, wake to write us down.