Woods at the edge of a marsh.
Someone has placed a bookcase
of varnished maple, shelves
vacant but expectant. Also
a slab of plywood on the ground
with a large plastic jug, a wire
device of unknown purpose,
and an unused bar of soap.
The jug has a pink stopper,
the plywood is filthy with mildew.
Discovering this installation
far from the nearest house
confirms that art is everywhere.
You order me to photograph it
before coming rain can spoil it.
But this isn’t something the Louvre
would hanker for. A narrow board
lies beside it with “Free” spray-painted,
so this is only discarded junk,
not the clever arrangement
we saw from the corners of our eyes.
Still, I snap a couple of pictures
to hang in the MFA, the Tate,
the Met, or Wadsworth Atheneum
when the curators aren’t looking.
Then all would agree that art
with a capital T has arrived
in woods at the edge of a marsh
in Harrisville, New Hampshire,
blossoming in the autumn when
people add worn-out belongings
to landscapes too plain to admire
without a touch of culture.
