Katja Abbott

foolishness trying to understand
It’s an ache for real, for life’s bitter ecstasy
for this is how it is

My art is a storm that
throws things around
Because it can
Because things want to be moved

My art is incomplete,
unwilling
a poem, a lament
It’s a hundred songs sung at the same time
luminous, discordant

My art is salvation
a temple
a balm for passion and confusion
a possession, an affliction
a cat that won’t be told or tamed
It is never good enough
or has time enough
It is impatient
like the flight of a thousand swallows
to the sun