The Atelier in Winter
We solder together a theory;
We revere the whole and
dis-shelved and plinthed, an angry
We shroud our shrine in corrugated
So the mothballs can't get out. Stern
in each corner. Sometimes we swear
We played with an octagonal design
seemed more suitable.
He always reproached us for lack of restraint.
We became intricate parquet
Monotonous as memory itself,
Swimming in tradition and décor.
oil, decorate him with glitter-gloss
succeeds in looking festive, but at times
The back door of the atelier creaks.
A little voice that rasps: Pay attention --
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