Steel and concrete supports,
Dreams, stretched across like skin,
Oil and plastic daubed thick
Into the weave.
Works of art of nothing,
Works of art from nothing,
Works of art of nothing but works of art.
We want somewhere to play.
I am thinking of aurochs and angels,
The secret of durable pigments,
Prophetic sonnets,
The refuge of art.
We want somewhere to play.
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