A MARXIST VILLANELLE

The greatest art is art that no one sees.
This art, whose mark on men of consequence
is small, exists in the basic mysteries

we keep inside ourselves. It flows with ease
from callused hands on sunburned continents,
this greatest art, this art that no one sees.

The supplest odes are written to the breeze
as blowers cast an eye toward coughing vents,
their verse devoured by noise, sweet mysteries

that vanish as composed. And in Belize,
the heir to Rembrandt's strong strokes paints a fence.
The greatest art is art that no one sees.

Alone, in fallow fields, on war-scarred knees,
a dancer reels with practiced eminence.
So many muse-touched hearts die mysteries.

Great art, it's true, adorns known histories,
and well-viewed artists gird our elegance.
But the greatest art is art that no one sees;
it’s fleeting, birthed in piecemeal mysteries.