Dorothea Tanning: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (1943)
If Art would only talk it would, at last, reveal
itself for what it is, what we all burn to know.
As for our certainties, it would fetch a dry yawn
then take a minute to sweep them under the rug:
certainties time-honored as meaningless as dust
under the rug. High time, my dears, to listen up.
Finally Art would talk, fill the sky like a mouth,
clear its convulsive throat while flashes and crashes
erupted as it spoke—a star-shot avalanche of
visions in uproar, drowned by the breathy din
of soundbites as we strain to hear its august words:
“a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z.”
—From Coming to That (2011)