I Am A Person In A Gallery Poem by L.B. Temuco

Are we absent or present
wherever we are
we do not accept each other
without a fight
without dissonance
without the grass lying flat
its cells pierced, plasmolysed
do we ask each other
always the wrong terrifying questions
do we want the vigour of natural things
of unimagined meaning
descriptions without end
or do we crave to remain unfinished
in the limitlessness of grace
our eyes still blue and form-less
I am a person in a gallery
looking for you
my eyes aching
for Vincent and Edvard
and the sweet blood of you
you are this preposterous love
this incompleteness
this triumphant infinity
this endlessly rising canon
of scattered emotions
that I hear in Bach and Pachelbel
in the crimson essence of clouds
that open like a birds heart in the wind
emptying themselves
taking pleasure
in the golden twilight
of your face