So cold here in the art gallery. My stiff fingers can almost breathe steam. I tried, I tried to melt the ice, to make my fingers supple. I tried turning up the heat from within the boiler room, but still the registers sit cold and stale, useless monoliths of warmer times. People browse through the art for inspiration and for pleasure like elk browse through snow for bits of icy brown grass.
Elk never remove their coats.
By the way, this poem is copyright 1994-1998. Read it, show it to your friends and your enemies, but do not claim it as your own, or I shall be forced to let my pet chinchillas loose in your computer room. You don't want that.