Speaking sense

We were queuing in Berlin
When Tom explained the senses:
Waves, beams and vibrations,
The pin-holes of the eyes.

“That’s one interpretation.”
In a courtyard, we were waiting,
Entering gallery spaces,
A nerve-bundle at a time.

Then framed before Athena,
We quailed before Athena,
Thoughts stirring in the oils,
Oils dancing though bone dry.

Two to make a painting.
One more again to tango.
And all museums unfinished
Outside the viewer’s mind.

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