8212. I WANT TO BE STANDING WHERE YOU JUST WERE

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.