There is a place on the corner
of Dean Street, where you can
catalogue souls in boxes. Lift them
up as shirts and iron them.
whispers on city ghost tours, on feet,
of people who fell down there.
Who gave up their words by accident
for a paper thin curator. Found themselves
filed on all four corners
and couldn't get back out.
[tag word: MUSEUM - from @jennifuchs]
100 Poem Challenge: writing 100 poems in a weekend to raise money for EEC International.