The Museum

Glass doors
divide and partition
poisonous ivies
from clean and gentle hands,
cooled skin of patriots
touring the shores
of abstract feminists
Slotted floors
coming up beneath the foot
to cry and creak,
wooden planks
unbuttoning their shirts to breathe
and move freely
under the pressure
of each purposeful, steel nail
What if things are unclean and un-manicured
out of our line of view? (I ask)
Why aren’t you looking at the exhibits? (They reply)
Why must you anchor yourself in the identity named?
Are you afraid of the native land?
(I continue)
The journey through this space is terrifying,
contrived and layered
facets of human creation,
jig-saws of unthoughtful constructs
A luminescent beam changes the pitch and tone of the box
in which we are spinning,
weaving together a purpose
for this work
Yet, I long to be outside
with the sky
moving across alluvial streams of time
sedimentary cycles destroyed and renewed,
What if I am unsure of which part you have called art? (I implore)
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Photo by jcdauphinais

J.Dauphinais, Photo and Words, 2015 (c)


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