Great Art

for Donald Grace

Underneath your skin, your heart

moves.  Your chest

rises at its touch.  A small bump

appears, every

second.  We watch for what appears

to be hours.

Our hands log the time: the soft

light, darkness

underneath your eyes.  Our bodies

intersect like highways

with limitless access and perfect spans

of attention.

We pay for this later.  I pay

for breakfast.  We

can’t stay long.  We take off

to the museum

and watch the individual colors

as they surface

in the late works of Matisse.

They move the way

your heart moves, the way we breathe.

You draw your own

breath, then I draw mine.  This is

truly great art.