The Work of Art
In the museum garden, Katrina climbs Heizer’s “Eight-part Circle.”
It’s rough and sparkled granite,— her salted fingers,
smear these monumental questions onto her just-washed face.
Her father yells, “No. That’s art.”
This—likely— not the first betrayal: her stubby hands and toes
pulled from her mouth . . .
A circle and its order disassembled, stacked
in blocks. Her crawling reconstruction.
That’s what I’m talking about.