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The Museum
Glimmer from margin is ambitious scheme revived. Knock
at threshold applies brush against each you of network trim. Appropriates
vantage bequeathed to old master before response blurred canvas, leaving
a subject that is difficult and much closer than the caption implies.
(Adopt shrewd pace, lure dissimulation to salt leash,
carve notch on band cluster.)
Years later sold at auction with provenance to offset technique made obvious.
A thin line down the middle grows more significant as its meaning recedes.
Conflict is suppressed in favor of a picture book the dancer loved as
a child. She dreamed one dream lasted her entire life, which was put in
a museum whose location is known only by a caretaker and some local farmers.
(Brooding charge of stud, swarm mob from elect.)
The museum was never intended to house art. In the basement treasures
were discovered after the war. All were returned to their rightful owners
except the work in question, perhaps because it was damaged and unsigned.
Torn in several directions, the dancer has become equated with the museum,
and her face shows character that issues from experience distinguished
by a sharp interplay of weapon and fog.
(Triage declared rule provided brim over quotes.)
In the dark she can hear music and the following lament: Why do my knees
itch when the swanboat departs? Calm evening turns north. Light breeze
is felt on my neck. Moderate raises dust and loose paper. Strong makes
wires whistle with sincerity that’s outdated. I swim alongside and
place a folding mirror in front for a trick. Paint washes off the boat,
leaving a trail winding its way to where the mirror is smashed.
(Exaltation is distracted by hammer drawn bouquet.)
She made a covenant with the dead who have not given up. To reconcile
her dream she searched the woods for a sentence or phrase her body had
always expressed. Stubborn like the little girl in her book, listening
to leaves fall year-round would reveal flesh transfigured and increasingly
abstract.
(Forward spring at nest route:
unkind murmur of host whose seed learns eclipse.)
All the art was photographed and cataloged and then forgotten. What remained
was disguised as narrative. A nice spot in obscurity where the canvas
sat for ninety years. A chamber out of fashion where the dancer feels
safe. A torso enveloped in ritual rhythm, boldly swirling between walls
built to withstand threats made and promises never kept. One promise in
particular, passed down from misfit to misfit, comparing innocence to
a beautiful sin.
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The Museum