In the museum hall, near the shocking air
        around Kiki Smith's Virgin
        (bold labia cast in metho-cellulose, shining
        glass pupils pushed into a paper head
        with no mouth),
        past stairs roped off, rooms closed
        for renovation, you stand.
        On your cheek, the glance
        of misplaced makeup. Beyond the corner,
        canvas bodies without heads
        ranked, wrapped and rewrapped
        in glue and more canvas and the order
        of memory. Then a mediocre Rothko
        with red pouring deeply into white.
        We wander toward the end of a horizon
        where salt is falling from the sky
        back to your studio to drink Turkish coffee
        from tiny cups. Tom Waits pulls himself apart
        in the background. The time between us
        is now lost in the street with all the things
        that you and I think we have loved.

Copyright © Michael J. Opperman, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.