Apology To Picasso

Juliana Marie

I want to understand. I
try to see thru the confusion,
past the little lines and
tone on tone blending away
of the physical, to the meaning.

I stumble and grasp, clutching
at the passers-by.
What am I not seeing? Why
is so much made of this mile
of lines? They are altogether
more strange than the multicolored
intersections of a pile of pick up sticks
dropped onto a patchwork quilt.
Now that, is art.

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