Do you have any idea
What
One hundred forty six dollars and thirty two cents of art supplies
Looks like?
?!
Oh glory, sheets upon sheets and they're
Blank, unadulterated swallowtails of cream, brisk
In their bindings but so, so ready to soar.
Black covers rough with glossy stickers, like those little squares of
Dew that's left clinging to the undersides of tiny wings when they land,
Uncolored yet.
It's unimaginable, the inks that will fill them full.
And there are
Cathedrals of wax, small and
Inactive, putting on a show before they're even put to work,
Residents of their own contrasting domes, untouched pools
Solid water with bright shades and enticing hues.
Their cousins, the heartlines of creation,
Strings in a fantastic harp, one that stretches for shelves and on.
Ordered shells, the loveliest kind of fit in your hands, each
And every examination you make met only with a longing to fill your basket with fistfuls
Of them, sharp and precise things, things of detail's design.
Color-filled counterparts
Stand in nice rows alongside, scribbles trail
Like ribbons trapped in the second-dimension,
Like
Precise fine chisels that cut not stone, but sheets,
Through their whites, chipping plainness away to reveal galaxies. Numberless.
Papers paints pencils pens
Pens papers pencils paints
One hundred forty six dollars and thirty two cents of them.
Glorious.
