One painting is in darkness
The blood trundles
Around my calves and my thighs
As if to say it is time to rest
I need not meditate
To feel the twinge in my left knee
Or the dissatisfaction, shown
By the soles of my feet
With the morning's extreme walking
Only the scents, the perfumes
The eau-de-colognes
Only the aroma's
Heavy with wanting, heavy in expectation
Of lifting the weight from my wasteland
It is quiet now, I am alone in the gallery
There is a parquet floor; the exhibition:
So Last Century
Says a lot about misdirected energy
There are more staff than visitors
There are more galleries closed than open
Two days ago the doors closed
On the future, or the past
Of the Spanish Civil War, it seems
The modernists have moved on
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