On art

Some artists want to own it,
To license the use of it
On their terms, revocable on a whim,
As if the sweet blood that pours out
To rejoin the soil from which it sprang

Could ever be unmingled,
Could be redistilled if the dirt
Were deemed unfit for cohabitation
With such lofty stuff.

As if the close, heavy air
That squeezed out the dewdrop
Was itself unworthy
Of such holy moisture.

All of art is collaboration.
What good is a pot
With nothing to fill it?
What good is a mirror
With no reflection?

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