I paused, grief pitched.
It was leaking, ground up.
It was decaying, sky down.
Its canvas was crumpled.
Its fly sheet was fraying.
Its frame was haggard.
All shrieked of decomposition.
I salvaged a bag of pegs.
The A's, I kept, as keep-sakes
I took four photos.
Its was an unwilling engraving.
It, however, had already become something else.
engraving.
a rose.
O, look, an Ikea tent. You are doomed.
ReplyDeleteMight as well be a rose. A canvas by any other name would just as enfolded.
ReplyDeleteThere is much to be read in canvas.
DeleteWe are all doomed.
ReplyDeleteI see a beautiful dancing lady within the rose. Do you?
ReplyDelete