His forms seem to be, well, forming
From the substance of no matter and all matter
Not the outward shapes, mind you, but 
Forces living on surface which any moment
Might break the lease and
Overrun the landlord, Outline

His garniture of vases proudly reaches high
Tapering to tame the wild advance
The way your teacher lined you up at the door

Those dancing flowers 
Will in seconds transform into feathers
Then who knows what? –
Forced upwards into The Limbo,
Not outwards into The Moonwalk 

God knows those finials might collapse
Under the voltage or else live in unbearable ecstasy,
Pleading with air to take on some of the joyous burden
But air is only a vehicle

Rozenberg Factory should have named the line
“Containers which cannot contain”
And sold even more

Little is known of Colenbrander’s early years
If he sailed to see his missionary uncle 
In Indonesia, we’ll never know
Except for those ever-generating pictures
Sucked out of Java into the ether until
Finally landing at Rozenburg

In/on “Constantinople” minarets and cross dance the Electric Boogey
Under the sunlight-ning of day-night
While the literal horizon line fools no one:
Creative energies neither contained nor divided,
As the mosques and church know well
And, too, that at any moment Byzantium
Could lose purchase on its clay bed and
Float back to the studio into the hands
Of Colenbrander, 
The only proper container