Looking at The Floor Scrapers by Gustave Caillebotte.
nothing to be learned.
no improvement.
the daily toil of making ones self understood
stops.
only melt into the blast.
lift me out of the mud
unbuckle my knees and let my mind,
with all its flawed design
rejoice in being alive.
I trawl the world for this.
the thing that grabs us,
drags us down the alley
into the glaring light of the truth.
where words give up their futile quest to define
and everything glows like the deep dark fish.
to feel like this
even for a moment
un-drudges everything.
Peace comes dropping slow 