I walked into the only open gallery
in this fair city.
Walls were white, so wide and empty.
Every frame was gilt.
The ceiling lofted, high and mighty.
Floors shone waxy hardwood clean.
I stood among a row of gawkers gawking
and could feel my legs grow wobbly and so long.
I rubbed my eyes to waken deeper.
There was so much here I couldn’t see.
The artist (who wore white, with fiery wings)
seemed flighty, but I understood his pain.
It’s never easy to see nothing clearly.
He could add so little to the world outside,
its myriad of streets, the great bazaar.
His emptiness was here, almost complete,
so beautifully hung, so bright, so dear.