Diptych

You can fall in love

in a museum, but only

with the art

or its silence—or the stranger

you don’t mean to follow

suffering past the Old Masters

& the unnamed

servants. Rembrandt’s face

half in shadow—

you can fall for what

isn’t there already, or

with the 13th century—the swan

raising up, roosters hung

upside down to die on a cross—

Even the tourists gathered

round the docent, the same

jokes & half-truths,

loom beautiful—

the children crying hurried

out of sight. Forget

The Night Watch, the crowds,

instead follow the quiet

to the portraits of light

entering a room. These walls,

few windows, hold

the world—what the world

couldn’t say till someone

saw it first—and now

it’s everywhere. The braids

    of that woman’s hair.

self-portrait with felt hat

One should never be in love

when in a museum—

    better to be alone, if not

utterly, then practically—

tired of feet, & routine,

    forge ahead beyond

the bounds of audio-tours

& family, isolate, avoid

    this couple oblivious

to it all, the captions & arrows,

kissing like no tomorrow

    beside Van Gogh’s sunflowers—

bruised, chartreuse, brilliant

& wilting for years, yet never

    managing to. Skip

holding hands & Gauguin’s

portrait of Van Gogh

    painting what he saw. The crows

gather like clouds, black—

or the crowds—that the couple

    doesn’t care about—

numb to all else. Best

    believe in the world

more than yourself.