Stratified abstracts: Revisionist stains 

breathe out real-time teams of self-negating 

black ants walking briskly, pausing often...

It'll feel good to get rid of some stuff

(those rumpled sketchbooks). Creating no art

will become my art; contention that my 

shit don’t stink, the big promotion is not

worth finding in the first place I won’t look: 

   A frozen marsh, a hard-edged cloud. Against

   a deliberately wintry mix, dock lights

   fashion an old coat when, upon ditching 

   the illusion, as real as any dream, 

   of progress, we all find out it’s better

   to miss the boat by ten minutes than one.