POETRY
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
t the Met you enter not with a bleeding but an open heart, a heart proudly exposed like those of ancient saints seriously displaying theirs so beautifully on the outside of their blue and red garments, garments of bright colors trimmed with yellow gold leaf and sewn with glowing silver thread. Inside the museum a surprisingly orange-pink mountain rises up out of a dark thicket of young saplings, a lonely lady at a table by
