Museum of Still Life

Out of the clear ariosos of memory,
it comes to this: jars, bottles, vials,
the gloss of glass, sacraments of salt,
the dusky pears and bosky apples
whose hollow stems conceal
hollow thought. All here is marble,
only pastels smeared on matte:
smudges, edges. Only hands on harp strings
pick clear lines. Else all is silence, marble white.
Only the gusty blowing of cathedral bells
and cooing of pauper doves.

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