In a drawer 

In a basket of white gloves,

Once used to handle 

Precious. Art.

(the kind of art that has Meaning….

But for the most part is simply ugly-

Not the kind of honest ugly that Wakes you UP,

But the kind that is filled with the 

“Importance of being Art ”

Yet upon occasion they did caressed the real deal…)

Now, no longer of use to archivist or master printer,

They became a bower for a mouse…

Now a shroud…

All that remains are stains and scat and a tiny body.
Such is the way with us as well,
Thus with tender care,

I give the carcass…what was left after bugs had had their fill

To the fir trees.
Now,

       What to do with the gloves?

…
Release the memory of past wounds and touches.

All is forgiven,

Only the stains remain.