Sunday at the De Young

Ah, to be young, and alive, and appreciative
of company in the afternoon where we try
to be as non-intrusive as possible to Susanna
who is naked in Missouri with pubic hair,
apparently, which says something about the
piece, or artist, or America. I can’t recall. But
it doesn't really matter. Let’s fuck in the
middle of the gallery and confuse people
by being in the wrong section for stains, abstractions
in the midday and you said you had never seen a
Motherwell in person or a Chinese running turtle
but being young and alive is enough excuse for
anything these days. Isn’t it? I’ve never understood
these things, these esoteric declarations, hidden
semaphores like breadcrumbs or like when a writer
says things like, “the afternoon kisses the sky cold
and blushing,” or “your nose soft and wet never
forgot winter.” Without which no cohesive story
could ever manifest beyond silly things like sunsets
and cigarettes rolling between knuckles
and lips and dark clouds in the park waiting
for us to remember that we aren’t quite old
yet and there’s not so much to remember or
contemplate but there’ll be plenty of time
for weeping and such when last night tiptoes
down the hallway in the morning limping
with hairs stuck in teeth and coffee breath
from six days ago when Susanna was still
naked but I was nervous until in the next room
I realized how geometrically sound it all is! And
staring hopelessly at these shapes, I prayed there
was a kennel to put our love until the yard is big enough
and the house has plenty of wall space for stains
and abstractions that I’ll still look at with thick
brow and forehead but enjoying their company
as they stare back giggling at our fetishes
for domestication and oil paints.