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Letter #3

January 13, 2011

Once a month   I wait on the steps of the Met

you are always 15 minutes late

we enter without speaking through the heavy doors

first  the Greeks and Romans

then the Egyptians

dusting the basalt and  marble  with our eyes

then up the stairs where there’s  color

and the  scent of your hair

blooms  in front of each picture

as we stand shoulder to shoulder.

I   stall-

and let you float on   ahead.

Across the table   at a restaurant

we cut  Cezanne’s apples and Chardin’s crusted pears

reconstruct  Monet’s cathedrals and haystacks

your neck slants   like a Sargent or an Ingres in the feeble  light

while the storms  that lash   Soutine’s landscapes

and the mausoleum hush  of De Chirico’s

alternate on  the table cloth.

After wards, vaguely  drunk

we sway, hold hands

walk to the subway station grudgingly

and  take separate trains.

 

 

 

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