The World Is Its Own Museum

Robyn Sarah
From:   Questions About the Stars. London, ON: Brick, 1998.

What is this box of shapes
that I'm assembling?
It is not a question to ask.

Say I assemble a box of shapes
as every human does, because my eye,
lighting on them, likes them,
because "life" is an inversion of "file",
because the world is its own museum.

It is not a question to ask,
running one's finger over the
dusty contours of the unidentified.

I assemble a box of shapes
as every human does,
watching them gather dust
in their corner—as we all
clutter our corners with the unidentified.
We are collectors all, and our
collections are collectors too,
collecting dust.

Still I assemble a box of shapes
because my eye, lighting on them,
likes them--as my eye (come fresh
from the dazzle of afternoon
into the gloomy entranceway) lights too
with pleasure upon the hall
table where one has placed
the bowl of what's currently blooming.

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6 | Poem 7 | Poem 8 | Poem 9 | Poem 10 | Poem 11

Robyn Sarah's works copyright © to the author.