I think it is Art when we cease to exist
under the pretext of expectancy
and begin to breathe with our eyes
hands and feet.
It must be the depths in my sinking
that erases the need to be in control
or the casual stroll by the sidewalk
of a busy street where people are
just faces, impersonal, unattached
to my sense of feeling.
It must be Art
not to belong anywhere
or to anyone
preserved in anonymous memories,
To rise and set in the colorful shades of your
subtle intimacies, my mystic muse
characteristic of such silent dreams
to let go
and just be.