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Openings

The impastos and gouaches in the small gallery
on the third floor, the long-limbed bronzes
crowding the poorly lit hallways, the after-hour
departures rehung as an homage to the lives
of the long coats and wide brims that filled
the spaces between the shows and now daily wait
for the commuter train and the safety of the suburbs
are not unlike the visitors who drift through,
stopping occasionally for a closer look
at the work of the brush or painting knife,
the blending of color, the play of light and dark,
scribbling their lives, page after page,
revision upon revision, against the collage
of empty limbs in the courtyard,

moving to the rhythm of the wind

amid the color fields of seasons
with their unmet promises, their table settings,
their half-filled water glasses.


La Foret  by Alberto Giacometti