Museum Fatigue

Blue bed – soft sheets
And pillows in torn pillowcases
Pillows hard as matted pleats of hair
Quietly lying, thinking fine
Thoughts like twined-gold jewellery
Loot of colonial vessels.
Maybe – a staff made of whale rib, whale song
Or masks in the darkness
Of a glass room, speaking
Languages I can’t speak with.

I can speak the blue bed here
Heavy sheets and my drowsy shirt
All human elements heated
Til they propogate crisp museum light.

Published by

capuchin

Send your life out in multiple directions like a galaxy shedding stars. Always come back to hope and try to thrive. All posts, (poems, stories, essays, etc.) here are composed by my hand, unless noted otherwise. Please ask if you'd like to use one.

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