Wednesday, September 11, 2019


He sits, stares at a single painting 
in the afternoon, rather abstract,
neo-abstract, perhaps neo-realist 
or post something, he doesn’t know
but it doesn’t matter, the painting
and its moment, the painting
in its moment is what matters
to him, speaks to him, he doesn’t
understand why but he’s beyond 
understanding, beyond veneration,
having arrived at veneration,
the painting is an icon, he thinks, 
the painting should be carried
properly by priests in cassocks
and belts of rope, priests
with long beards, as they carry
the icon flanked by acolytes
with candles down the steps
to Fifth Avenue and turn south. 

Painting: September, oil on canvas by Gerhard Richter (2005), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. This poem is a repost from Sept. 11, 2014.

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