There's a woman somehow veiled in marble who is only for
me so I take her out of the Art Institute through a back way
and no one notices: she lives with me now, happier than in
the gallery with the cold white lights, in my home she is seen
for who she is, though the veil cannot be removed, its
hardness impenetrable, but now she can be touched.
Acutely Life playfully or sorrowfully interrogates works of art, asking...
Related Subjects
Poetry