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.

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