Viewing Jackson Pollock’s “Convergence”

          A wind in primary colors,
           many breezes, wildly controlled.
           A gust, no, gusts gone chaotic
           but patterned, too.
           All loopy and coiled and snake-like,
           serpents moving with both instinct
           and alien intelligence, heaving
           headlong off the canvas
           into their own dimension,
           that dimension and its drips of paint
           uncontained by geometry.
           Neither linear nor circular nor cylindrical,
           defiantly evolving and extending and slithering and sliding
           and flitting and flinging and pulsing and panting:
           a galaxy hurling itself toward us.