Found Poem, Seemingly for Cheese
There was a ruckus in aisle 44. I did cause it. I’m concerned about your career. How, lately, the colorful berries have outstripped you in art appearances. And those flat biscuits, too. I suppose this speaks to a pervasive need for small shadows. But as I told the aisle, we can’t forget it was you who carried those old still lives. You sat in the back or on the side and were the layers, the finely-positioned bulk. And when the pictures were done, only you gave the artist something to eat.
You are living. I must insist. Cultures develop in your chambers. You have given them salt to work with; you provide a staircase. A beautiful traffic ensues. I can recall it.