It was a Persian summer, this standing
Ornate prints that protrude
With gold edges and white tiles into space,
Do not recede
Like Renaissance geometic perspective
And Uccello's lances.
The visible becomes invisible
As in Lucreatian ocular philosophy
Moves as immaterial material though
The sidewalks of space
To step across an eye ball
To fall through an open trap door
Into the red art deco rooms of the brain.
This being met and caressed
By what is inert
Shattered into fragments
All the trophies on the shelves
Of the secret room
And the public quick glances.
The moment brought the plucked strings
Of bass violins made of wind
To be a trellis, a lattice,
A fence, something that separates
The singular, solitary self,