I WANT TO BE STANDING
WHERE YOU JUST WERE
In the courtyard of MOMA, whatever
it's called - garden, courtyard, plaza,
mall - there are always things with a
grandeur I do not know. Like the
newest ringtone of a bell I hear, or the
listen-to of some music, new, the
simple-peculiar is what catches the
eye. And brings me here to know.
One million guardians in time, and
you, like a walking Picasso stroll by.
I recognize the angled face, those
planes, and the triangle that is your
eye. There is a human attribute about
it, but I don't know how or why. The
Blue Period is never mentioned, and
pure classicism is from here gone.
Two of us. Skeletons in flesh, and
hardly breathing, we deign to try to
talk of Art - my long ellipses, your
Sister Wendy brightness. That outdoor
sculpture of a long-stemmed rose; it
really must be a joke since it's thirty
feet tall. We can't talk of anything else.