The swirling light reflects my awareness
and I arch my eyes to get a grip.
The artist asks too much of me,
whose life has passed in Pure Land calm.
I, too, am bound—not to sketch but to stare.
The seer has been drawn in person by the artist
to this inevitable mural point,
to gawk and to wonder where the Work begins,
this journey of ghostly forms and wet.
I searched for a lifeline and found none.
But curves curled me up and returned me
to my centre, my beholder—
I am Turner;
lash’d to a frame in a passionless gallery
while my project is at sea.
And I wonder:
how may the world be painted so
that nothing is missing yet something is found?
I wish to know and I wish to see.