Form’s function is a mystery
I’ll consider that a minute
If I’m not going anywhere
Can I be aesthetic?
Or must I be seen?
At least by me?
Can one be a solitary aesthete?
This is an ascetic,
Slightly different, but formally so
Informally, these are both statements of purpose
Beauty, in the eyes of many beholders
Or beauty, in the eyes of the single supposed beyonder
Northerly winding
A trail catches my eye
And I cannot remember
Mathematics or art?
Astronomy or history?
What’s the difference?
Irrelevance to each other
And in themselves
Possibly
But one couldn’t prove it
At least not without oil
On canvas
In the tank
A change
Piped in from far away
In a beautiful pipe
Smoked to perfection
A salmon sandwich
But a little too dry
At least until its been refined
But that’s a bit of a mystery too
How fine is just fine?
Roman Ryan 