An Art That Can Never Be Alone

If we could just write ourselves
Without involving people,
Without addressing people—

If we could speak to ourselves
Without passing through your flesh. . . .
Nothing wrong with flesh, of course,

But we’re never with our own,
Words only addressing words,
Without some of you around.

We know we’d upset you less,
Alarm and anger you less,
Allow your hearts to relax,

Keep your hormones out of it,
Let your digestions progress,
If sometimes we just kept this

Conversation between us.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be
Painting colors for paint, or

Music flouting that floating
Intentionality, tunes
Not so damn tied to signage?

But then we wouldn’t be us,
And, as us, we talk as you.
Thus. Excuse us, coming through.