After the Frames and Painted Ceilings

The sky behind the museum
gathers its grays. A storm brews
above the ice white horse.
In this furious palette, he glows
from withers to flanks.

What would it take
to wake a stone stallion?
We linger by the formal beds
barely in leaf.

If I could become a friend of measure,
love symmetry as balance—

imagine sweat, steel on marble,
the glory of oranges and lemons,
a glass of Chianti in hand.

Instead, I draw plots.
Rain begins to spot the pages,
fall on my arms and now
the clouds are sinking
into my skin. We abandon
the benches, branches,

and this frozen steed,
slip through a side gate
wet with our vows.