I have a hard time believing that planes can fly

Science seems like hoping that something doesn’t go wrong

Love too then

But love is not science

And neither is love art

Except when art is love

Stark portraits of some 18th century landowner


But, explosions of color on a canvas the size of a Toyota


All that beauty and fear and

The uneasy feeling that’s always in your stomach

But you mainly ignore

(Like the dust bunnies

In the museum’s corners

Everything swept so clean

But the dust mop evidently limited by its geometry

To access those few square inches)

The colors!

Spread open like the start and end of the universe

Reaching in every direction but not really

Because paint is stagnant and movement

Only an illusion

I want to hug anyone who took time to make note

Of themselves

Their brains

And bodies

And the mysteries between

I want to hug whoever decided to hang these mementos

On walls for me to see  

Today of all insignificant days

Hands reaching across centuries

Cupping over ears

And whispering secrets that are broken up by

Laughter and tears

I don’t mind that I can’t hear what’s said

Smiling ignorantly

I take my best guess

And accept that planes can fly

If minds can connect

Across centuries


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