top of page

a poem lost in the walls of an art museum


A thousand faces bare

a thousand variations of Mona Lisa’s smile,

vestigial traces felt only

when explanation supersedes art,

like the Prussian Blue that coats trees

still redolent with the stench

of human flesh singed on wire,

captivity molded into

a 47” frame we snapshot

against the music coating Parisian alleys so

violently rhythmic it catalogues midday

as if it were a scene edited out a film

on art and our glorified pasts.

Art lines the walls,

Waiting for these seconds of glory.

bottom of page