For David Arnason

“I found a sonnet,” said my professor,
“I put it in a museum.”  I found my professor
in a museum. He was putting a sonnet there,
slipping it between the dinosaur bones

and the possibly fake Renoir, near the glass case
containing Revolutionary Hope.
He was about to say something, but
I put him in a sonnet, which I put in this poem,

hidden in the Museum of Old Professors
which is also here (in the line above this one)
and where I had just been placed,
with my poem about my old professor.

We like it here.
We talk about the autonomy of art.