A Museum of Art and Eggs

<p>We are made of the art that comes before us. The paint flakes off and becomes our skin. We cannot escape the art museum and it cannot escape us. Every canvas is a mirror. I see past lovers in every film. In this ekphrastic poetry collection Jarred Corona explores what it means to consume and to be consumed to love and be loved to hurt and be hurt. Of course there are plenty of eggs along the way. What else would you throw at the exhibits?</p>