Today's poem is by Wayne Miller
You were the vanishing point
where the painting pinched shut.
I stood before it for months.
People came and went behind me
sometimes they bumped into me,
their voices flashing like mirrors.
The skylights lifted and lowered
the room as though on a pulley,
your assemblage of colors
dipped with each passage of clouds.
When, finally, I turned away,
there was still the long walk out
through those marble halls,
past thousands of paintings
lined up so perfectly their details
into their collective symmetry.
The building was empty. My steps
echoed outward from my core
to be caught by the canvases,
the tapestries, the drapes
and cushioned benches
along the balustrade. The guard
in the arched entranceway
nodded vaguely, held there
by his flickering screens. Then
I was out on the street.
It must have just rainedthe trees
in the arbor were heavy and slick,
the pavement stained.
And all the cafés were mottled
with people, conversations filling
the air between them. I was thirsty,
I realized, lonely and ravenous.
Copyright © 2016 Wayne Miller All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse Daily!
Web Weekly Features
About Verse Daily
Submit to Verse Daily
Copyright © 2002-2016 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002-2016 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved