Break Its View

To do it, to pull it off,
The artist’s things echo
Other, unartistic things,

Make them strange, so the viewer
Inhabits in one moment
The shock of feeling estranged

From the ordinary and
Vertiginous dizziness
Of confused recognition.

All art, that is, is surreal
When it works, a meta-merge
Of both reason and madness,

Whether made to do just this
Or intending something else
Or not to be art at all.

The disembodied wings fly
Over what were battlefields
Where the subdivisions rise.