Art galleries are funny places.
There’s a touch of expiation and atonement in the air.
Van Gogh, belatedly beatified, his muddy boots in the corner
an odd contrast to new shoes which, while gazing at Pink Poplars
sound like birds. This is no place to bend the knee
but stand straight and breathe deep,
a repository for you my visitor to look into my eyes
and see that which is shielded not just between you and the stranger
in the subway but wedging husband and wife apart
and worse, between our own selves and our longing
for things that cannot be had because we lack the ability to focus
having lost the context. Observe here now in contradistinction
the whole soul incarnate, matter once dumb now speaking. See?
There is no escaping the creation, the miracle.
Did I say this is no church? I only said the clay,
the breath, the stars and we are one.
© Dan Goorevitch, 2007
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