Walls of art marching
against sensory perception,
walls exhaust me. Not as much
as grunt-work at the gravel
plant. Still. Excess of art
fries neurons, sends the self
searching for a burrow.
The Hermitage hit me
like a tsunami. Bus loads
of tourists triggered
a riptide. I ran gasping
to the gift shop. A way
to ease back into reality.
Among postcard re-
productions, I found
an original print from an
engraving, contemporary
Russian artist. Brown ink.
A simple St. Petersburg
street scene--bridge, river,
stolid building. The cashier,
a lovely woman with Nordic
blue eyes, said, "This is
actually art." "Yes--so glad
I found it," I said. Cold Wars
new and old did not stop
us from agreeing. Somewhere
in St. Petersburg, the artist
toiled at her day job. Outside
the Hermitage with my
actual art in a brown paper
sack, I accepted September
sun warmth gratefully.
Breathed, the great palace
of art behind my back.
hans ostrom 2021
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