the true artist

Now here, ladies and gentlemen, is a true artist, true
as I have been walking all day and couldn't trace a single thing.
Yes, o yes, I have seen trees and houses,
a bus curved through the lane near the railway station, I noticed people had been waiting for it,
the sky in particular had a very clean, Magrittian blue, the cold season picked plumage from the rooftops
and more trees I saw, the birch, a poplar, and houses even more so.
No trace came from it. Image after image came, made a masterpiece and disappeared.
Clouds were funny, people stepped to a beginning or the end of the futile something. Signs made clear how to do it.
Speed limit, traffic ligths and things forbidden all along a sphere of stone and concrete. I noticed a couple
beneath an arc of trees with a dog marking out of many one single thread, and many other species.
The thing seen apparently made the unseen
and the unseen stood in front of me. I must have seen it, but I didn't notice.
The brain changed into unbrain and unbrain into brain, the usefull became futile and from this futile nonsense again emerged an industry vaste as Borges.
Yes, o yes, idle moments often turn out to get expert image.