everyone avoids having hands. the artists 
prefer them left just out of sight. we talk quiet
-ly amongst ourselves, so the paintings don’t hear
us as we travel through an endless series of hall
-ways. every woman is a goddess, or a woman
being chased by some dumb god. the gods
are everywhere, the gods are gods to us.
sometimes the trees look like the trees
we know. and sometimes we only know
them as trees because they say they are so
on the placard placed to the left or right
designed to explain to us what everything
in the world really means. we never even
question who they are. after all, they are
the experts, aren’t they? we take small breaks
to catch our breath, even though we only walk
slow. the world here seems so still, so crowded
and all the salomes are judiths, so there’s no dance.