The
unforgiving past prevents escape. The unknowable
future recedes like a mirage, luring us with dreams
of redemption. We learn, too late, hat life is but
a blade of grass, swaying to he music of . . . The
Neverglades
Jim
Tommaney, 1997
This poem is handwritten in pencil,
on the bottom part of the white mat. The print is
ink-signed by Pierre Marcel