It is a breaking of the block, immediately—
this attempt to point exactly.
Quite likely, it’s not possible to be specific;
make these words sure as his word-pictures.
There’s no abandonment to chance
in the concreteness of seven red elephants
circused on a page; or a man on a bicycle
which is to represent a hundred bicycles.
Gerd Arntz knew, you see, that obfuscation
was a means to conformity; and it was a
dereliction of quiddity not to pin rightly
what the thing being shown is meant to be.
Yet it seems less itself the more we go at it,
the thinginess of a thing!
Just like air, I’d say, stretching a dingy
out into a beach ball shape. I think
I’ll go travel far instead; pack a suitcase
(that’s a black print on paper, inked off a wood surface),
carry it in one-hand by my side;
wear a flat-cap and coat; stamp-paused in mid-stride
to board a train for The Hague, leaving
under a cloud outline permanently casting
three blue drops that denote rain water;
my scaled form no longer
to be counted as a single passenger.
In the key, an Erbar-Grotesk integer
will mark me equal to a thousand passengers,
over next year’s second quarter.