A museum, a gallery, whatever

A museum, a gallery, whatever
such repository is named, holds goods
like loot, each item certified fit
for worship and all those onlookers

do it in a silence as in a sacred
place we hold our tongues
Things, brought in from the
outdoors of rambling time

and held here like Kings-X,
to be silent around
Things, hoarded and held,
invoke this kind of thought we think

as if we’re in a garden cleared of weeds
by the effort of others
Those others never knew we’d be here,
never knew these objects would be

all that was left of their
loquacious lives, gone now to silence