Some beautiful objects are made by other human beings on earth
Dreamed up and cut from the air, commanded out of the eather
Spoken, sang, played, drawn into being from nothing
Are so powerfully beautiful, conjure such deep feeling
Are so exact, get to the focused singularity of a sentiment
Impression, state of mind, thing, moment, need, dream, etc..,
Move you so fundamentally, for just a few moments
You are taken entirely, forgetting your place in time, society
Geography etc.., you become an appendage of the work, the part of the work that feels its slef.
They call out of you a deep sentimentality, not necessarily for anything particular
Just a monsoon of feeling, a churning mixture of something visceral
Needful, ancient, primitive but more-less refined and wrapped in the contingent
They likely include arguments, formulas, structures
But that’s not what they are, they don’t make arguments
They are truths somehow, common to our blood
Since we dropped out of the trees, and stood wondering that perhaps
A fearsome and fortunate mistake had occurred,
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