I dropped a piece of my skin
onto the floor of the art gallery.
Just a small piece: translucent and curling.
I liked the art very much,
but there wasnt any place
to sign my name;
no physical way to prove
that I had taken the time to really look.
Perhaps that tiny sliver
from my own body
is testament to my appreciation
of another humans slice of their soul:
one nearly invisible
on the gray rug,
the other prominently displayed
on the glaring white walls.