What Is Created

dreams die hard.

the art gallery wrapped

in middle of a rambling

museum: several Picassos 

fracture white walls and the women

his cubism twists 

into fragments of selves;

they want to slide to the floor

and escape 

but cannot. 

One painting near a portal

is beautiful, tenderly 

glowing, her eyes rendered 

towards ground. Here at

this opening she’s found home, 

in her left hand holds 

words of a dream

where green parrots weave

their story of gathering joy

across a cerulean sky.

Outside, the afternoon melts 

underneath a huge slab 

of concrete spanning 

the street into dark silence; 

later, you tell me how 

you wished I’d bought

you a bracelet in the gift shop

we’d wandered into. Your face 

sadly tender, angular, one 

of Picasso’s invisible models.