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.