On vanity

I acknowledge

the vanity of writing.

Specifically my writing,

this writing.

Writing

as an art

is beautiful

and useful.

Some writing is beautiful and useful.

This

is not.

This

is vanity.

The idea that this writing

does anything

more than allow me to move thoughts to permanence

is vanity.

But I’ll allow it.

For myself.

But now I find myself in need of a justification

for vanity,

lest I lean on it as a weakness of will,

which I hate.

Expression,

as vanity,

appears to clean the house of my mind

and makes room for other

better

things.

Or at least cleans the detritus

to be filled anew.

In that

it isn’t what is written

but the act of that is important.

Apparently,

then,

I can write whatever I want

in vanity,

and a clean house justifies. Neat.

Hippopotamus.

Electron.

Fields of seeding grass.

Cleanliness.