she was a teacher of mine, i enjoyed saying aloud,
which could be why i am walking through the halls
of the gallery, yet why will i later remember
the gallery’s rooms while revering the changing light?
at these times, i am thinking of the possibilities
of transcending and of forsaking everything, which we are
too small to collect, and carrying on collecting
things which emerge mysteriously from the past,
things swirling out from nothing, like a mist,
things masters and laborers stored carefully
and improvisationally in layers of paint.
here, finally, the subject of love arises,
and i feel a desire for a shift in style,
concrete, stark, and elegant,
but this will require patience, a great deal
more of courage and freedom, and now
i am dead tired, and almost home, and the heat
is out over the sea and the city, like a myth.