He was staring at one of its faces,
fine-boned, with one of those faint,
appealing scars, a face he might
seek out at a party on a night
he couldn't help himself again.
He'd learned, but forgotten,
the pointlessness of seeking;
he was, after all, alive,
and desire often sent him aching
toward some same mistake.
The museum was spacious, the walls full
of those gestures towards permanence
he wanted to believe mattered.
No longer was he sure they did.
But he was there, had paid his money.
The definition of beauty, Valery said, is easy;
it's what leads you to desperation.
He moved from room to room
and the face moved with him.
Renoir's women looked merely healthy.
A museum guard trailed, careful
not to hover. Meaninglessness,
he remembered(but not in time),
is what always makes a promise.
Otherwise we'd expect little
from it, no bloodrush, or grand
holiday of the mind, no sweet
prolonged forgetfulness
about what the future hold, no cheers
from the suddenly awakened soul.
