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.
