The Virgin bookstore shadow box,
Joseph Cornell in one corner,
Seems always open as I pass
And always closed up when I stop.
Every carefully arranged display
Of taxidermied ephemera I love,
So long as I can call it someone
Else's art. Else, I'm wary. I'm afraid
Of the miniature asiatic lion
Tucked inside the owl's claw,
Of the tiny, elaborated angel pinned
Behind him, no shoulder to cry on.
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