Show.

Old men wake up, look at art. The museum’s dark. You’re there, half-hearted. They think you’re pretty and you are. You, however, comb the doll-head garotted on a sculpture called “Hell’s Door.” Bald old men wake up, look at art you made out of my last hair. The museum’s a black house, ours. They think you’re pretty and you are, but in this mausoleum your hand slackens. The grin erased and placed into a shaving bin. The old men wake up, look at art but they don’t understand it. What I meant was “heart-darkened.” The museum fills up with blind people. They think you’re pretty and you are, but you aren’t here anymore. How you could have left I’m not sure. All landscapes black now. Me, artifactual. Near extinction. Old men wake up, look at art. They think you’re pretty and you are.

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