Poetry of the Pipes
Things were made here once.
Every action created.
Every inch of pipe and steel custom built
for action and movement and making.
Pipes let to things. Old wires drape the walls.
The ceiling has caved in, nothing new to you.
You have lived seasons of collapse.
You know how it accelerated the fall,
how the rust becomes more certain,
a paralysis of neglect.
The old factory has been reclaimed.
It is a museum now, not of history, no.
It has become something new,
collapse becomes art.
About this poem
The picture is taken at MoMA, the Massachusetts Museum of Modern Art. It once was the power plant for the factory the rest of the museum is housed in. It resonates with me as much as any of the artwork on display.
In the end, it is never about what we were. It is about what we are becoming. Trajectory, not history, defines us.