A poem inspired by icons, lost history, and many famous museums.
Pyramids and beheadings,
the crow-nosed plague doctor
wings of roughly-sharpened flint.
We're standing in marble-walled
clay-floored, LED-lit entrance hall
somewhere resembling modern London.
by the granite table, you admire
the first paper and proverbs.
by myself, I'm watching their shapes change
like a rainstorm lightening until just dew remains
graphless and plotless
and what might last
of us?
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