It's always somewhere, but whoever happens upon it
in some nameless street, usually runs into
a closed door behind which silence reigns

Or seems to reign. Most go on
back to the familiar layout of streets
and forget its existence.

Is the museum fluid, can it be folded
does it consist of prisms, electric fields
or just coincide with whoever thinks of it?

It's mostly deserted, the walls
and display cases empty save for dates
each debating whether the other is accurate

Or it fills with fog, with a
hesitant voice inside claiming
to remember nothing, virtually nothing.

But one single face, sound, incidence of light
can suddenly afford entrance to the
exposition where all has proven preserved.

Translation: Scott Rollins