smokerings

[ Frames ]

If ever you pass by
two oh nine you may hear
Rilke whispering.

Hand on hand
tall man, in
dark clothes mumbling
about birds
and grace
love and death

forsaking a verse
between spanish and
statistics,
one oh one.

Or if you were to walk
through galleries eight,
nine and
seventeen
you will see her lean

on stockinged feet
head aside
listening
for shouts and
sighs
tasting ink
bleed the canvas,
hushed leather
crossing
orators, minotaurs, shiva
and coughing,
slightly.

and if you care to brave
the heavy
cooked air in
hallway twelve,
you might find
german expressionists
pin the room
around their
frames,
great anchors
of human shame holding the building down.

only
the bold
carry Industriebauern like dark, heavy iron
in their heart.
stepping outside, the cold air usually dissolves any residues of guilt.


you and i
go in two fifty,
with the Monet
reprints and that
collection of frescoes donated by the
church,
the paper
only slightly worn
for use. it becomes
easier, every time i look and
these days
our laughter almost always
drowns
in tides of traffic
crashing on Michigan Avenue.

01-03-09