How is art to be confined to a little hut in the field?

But all this is detail, and details can't
emerge, like minutes out of a passive
clock, forever
 
 
 
 

Patterns blow through the glass or
grass, and the grass or glass is aster-
isked, epitomized, just where the
apples are donging into the dust with
vehemence, arguing against some-
thing, material gathered against the
inevitablility of death