…is something I’ve been overthinking this past month. Why? Can’t really say; artists are no more or less elusive (allusive?) than any other inspiration, whether it be flowers, or seasons, or people, or poems about people smelling the flowers, or maybe poems about people painting pictures that look like flowers, or poems painted that look like people are what people need to write. Maybe we’re all simply “journey agents” as this reviewer says about Ashbery. I like to think it’s all relevant to the process of whatever it is we’re contemplating about life at that particular time. Or not.