Art (poetry)

 

Art
They’ve all gone to look at mummies
so it is just my boy and me
and Diego Rivera
tromping the Limestone floors
that bounce his contented shrieks all around
Detroit Industry.
Sooner than usual,
the Exhibition becomes him
when a school group notices
the odd figure he makes: his shape and lines
wondering, “What is he trying to say?”
But my boy’s
eyes are pressed together tight,
face slanted to the skylight
as the cacophony of
sunshinesundaysomanyvoices
collide in his frontal lobe
in a grand collage of
being.
And abruptly
Rivera and the birth of manufacturing
go pale
the luminous breath of streaming lemon sunlight
is paler still
to my boy
exalted
in the art
behind his eyes.

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