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Things scattered on
a table, a book, a pen,
a flute, his pipe, a few tattered sheets of
music hanging off, clutter
to some, but "My Gems," he calls
this painting which
does not fool my eye, and I
look at the stuff on my
desk, like flotsam strewn across
a beach, and hear the words, "Clean
it up, you'll have more room
to work," but who can
understand these old
chestnuts, my movement
buttons from '68, that little
herd of elephants, my darning
bobbin and little wooden shoe,
or the lamp with Allende's
yellowed picture on the shade, bathing
all in a golden light "No, it's
fine, there's plenty of
space," I say, while caressing
the stone I brought from Nova
Scotia years ago, but I don't
say what I'm really
thinking, "How can you
not feel
the magic
of
things."
After viewing a trompe l'oeil
painting by William Harnett
February 19, 200