Dear Auden

 

You said they were never wrong

the old masters

but I walk through galleries

and any fool can tell you

all they knew was grief

 

Isn’t that wrong?

Shouldn’t there be

somewhere

paintings and sculptures

and music and weavings

filled with light?

 

How can I believe in you

the cadence of your art

its own heartbeat, its own darkness

when so much light is just beyond

the boundaries of mastery?

 

You promise life goes on

at least in the margins, where the boy

fell to earth and the dogs romp

and the horse is altogether happy.

But I walk through galleries

and I will tell you once again:

All I see is grief.