Suddenlies rushing, breeze;
Moments entomb me, these
Million marching ants cross
My heart and each seems lost
But knows his part of me.

Still lives melt asunder;
Reacting oils under
Nails make right our framing
Angles to contain them,
But clawing crowds plunder

Our portraits, throwing down
What captions had made sound
True. Somehow, crowds undo
What was stretched and come to
Nudes playing the foreground.

What now? The artist less
His mask, he must confess
At once to lovers long
Repressed and strangers, songs
His face never expressed.