In a queue, people shuffle
toward a museum's door.Finally all inside, they take off
coats, hats, gloves, scarves.
Winter chill did not come in.
The walls of the single vast
room remain blank. No art
depends from them. The people
sit or stand or lie and examine
each other, and each one
becomes a work of art, and each
one's a startling rendering. Shadow
and light, noses in profile or not,
heads, shirted shoulders,
bellies, lines and angles.
Sculptures alive, paintings
that breathe, dancers in repose.
Some people seize delight
from being seen & stared at.
Others look away or down.
Glances ricochet, stick, or slide.
The people often smile. This
is one of the finest exhibits
they've attended, attending
to themselves, their bodily
being in Time.
Hans Ostrom 2024
