The Ernst Exhibition

Amidst the strange writing
And the astronomy
A woman lies
On the polished wooden floor
Of the gallery

This is not an artistic statement
She is ill
As I write this she may even
Be dead

The large gathering who,
Until a few minutes ago,
Were listening to the guide
Is confused

But most take the opportunity
To quietly view
The Ernst exhibits

Painterly backgrounds
With tiny letters
Sense or nonsense?
It’s too early to tell