the saskians explore MoMA

interesting new exhibits, as usual. too bad i've got writer's block.


I. hanne darboven

to get out, one follows the
lightness
of air.

the notes have raised their hands.
in the close, white room
plagues of notes

and the woman
sings thrice

off-key.

watching
in place of silence i am eye
and cannot help but crinkle.


II.

all day i have been chasing the clean
line___ the window inked
in black

shadow folds the corners into
a room, directing
sweep of
the white walls, the
whitewash.

at the Met, puero

the body of the youth i could write
pages. bent perfect like a cyclops sunset
or the stones set in spades of threes on
the wall's floor. he
is broken invariably, faceless
the cracked marble exposing.

how holes are hid behind a skin of stones--

[one can almost imagine, as the bent hip insinuates itself inside the eye, his legs attached back at the knee, those arms lost, the head shriven off clean. but i do not wish to see what will disappoint the mind]