In a basket of white gloves,
Once used to handle
(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.
What to do with the gloves?
Release the memory of past wounds and touches.
All is forgiven,
Only the stains remain.