Ad Infinitum

Nothing is permanent -- no song,
No mistake.  An enterprise
Fizzles, an endeavor leaves
Nothing more than a lingering scent.
The skill to chisel
The ever immortal
As the same immortal sees
Flickers and in an instant
Is nothing more than the instance
Of its own concentration.
If art is a series of reflections,
Halting and discontinuous,
Ascending from whatever base
As an arpeggio
To their attainment,
That moment, it alone
Is what has meaning.
Scattered strokes conjoin
To make a symbol, lines
Assemble into declarations, synoptically
The mess of colors becomes form
And takes on shape --
Perceived in an instant, in an instant
Grasped, and in an instant,
When the aim of what was grasped has been attained,
Laid aside -- laid waste -- and left off for the next.
The next, the next, the next (tomorrow and...)
But each one known somehow with its respect
To that one's previous relation,
Known in an instant, replaced in an instant,
Remembered and forgotten in an instant.
Not in the chain itself, not in the precipice
Of any link ascending,
Is the meaning of the whole to be attained --
But it continues, faltering and grasping,
Going on until the place where it is gone.