if i was music, you could have played me, sightread
all the notes on the staff, followed my timing,
held melody and harmony in both your hands.
if i was a story you could have read me,
turning pages with delicate fingers and tracing
the arc of character development and denouement.
if i was a plant you could have grown me, if i was a dance
you could have moved with me, if i was anything tangible
or approachable you could have interpreted:
but like the spinning girl, like the generated art,
like pollock and joyce and all ethereal things
i gain traction only away from you, gain substance
only when tied to nothing, under no one's gaze.