For those in the Philadelphia area, stop by the Kelly Writers House on the University of Pennsylvania campus on March 20th to see Tracy K. Smith read. For more information about the event, click here.

So much we once coveted. So much

That would have saved us, but lived,

Instead, its own quick span, returning

To uselessness with the mute acquiescence

Of shed skin. It watches us watch it:

Our faulty eyes, our telltale heat, hearts

Ticking through our shirts. We’re here

To titter at gimcracks, the naïve tools,

The replicas of replicas stacked like bricks.

There’s green money, and oil in drums.

Pots of honey pilfered from a tomb. Books

Recounting the wars, maps of fizzled stars.

In the south wing, there’s a small room

Where a living man sits on display. Ask,

And he’ll describe the old beliefs. If you

Laugh, he’ll lower his head to his hands

And sigh. When he dies, they’ll replace him

With a video looping on ad infinitum.

Special installations come and go. “Love”

Was up for a season, followed by “Illness,”

Concepts difficult to grasp. The last thing you see

(After a mirror—someone’s idea of a joke?)

Is an image of an old planet taken from space.

Outside, vendors hawk t-shirts, three for eight.