A Poem, by Julie Collins
Mr. Hamada, it may very well be of burlap, enamel, oil, resin, tar, wax and wood
but it stands so elegantly poised
a room
a space station
a monastery
the windows face the stars
Hiro walks its halls
sagely mastering secrets
not
yet
spun
all sharp corners buffed and rounded
soft to the eyes, and touch
walls with epitaphs
this thing, this ancient thing
it floats and keeps its course