It is Challenging to Write Sense: Sketches of An Artist

To sketch the goal of a free beauty is the way
It spills out like liquid in the amber darkness
Of illuminated screens. A sip is the fuzz
Of the sound whose beat is sharp, plasticities
As if the metal, tabled and chipped, held the device:
Whose or what the regard? Holding forth
In the grasping that goes out to a candle
Spreading a peechish face, like butter blazes
A knife, night-life is an easy rhetoric.
Are they watching? Only the outside creature
Is unexplained; only the meter of what
Does not see is under-determined -- which
Determines, filling out the details
Of its blaze. Dark (how many times
Will the creatures repeat, running
Up the roots like marmalade?) but
There is no light, there is no amber
Glow, none is the marble of beautiful skin.
What will he say? 'Hello', only it is his voice
Traversing travesty the tunnels of stone
(If that is how you prefer it) where no one
Echoes himself. Can they hear it? What blaze
Of images, what is the fire spit turning, a cooking
Meat, flesh, feast? They are the translucent
Sparkle of their own image he does not contain,
But holds their tokens in the dark.