the (museum) afternoon, you left

grey is the way winter sits
in the crotches of treelimbs, frozen maples
and rock hard oaks, bent low, with snowy branches, reaching
over the stone walls along the west side of the park.

grey is every face, of every looming-granite-building
stacked, stone slabs from deep in maine or vermont,
hewn and dressed by men-from-the-old-country, where
stone work was an art of muscled forearms, and sheer everyday beauty.

            speak, of early snapshots
            speak of lonely eyes and long , rainy afternoons
            speak in your own voice
            and take my hand and walk under old streetlights, through pools of light, with me

grey is the breath of air, where feeble shafts
of sunlight dare to rip open a lighter grey,
and sleek, white marble women bend, gracefully,
their smooth, curved backs sore, since long before they hung jesus

grey is the somber, stone sea, where rodin's brown
"Pensuer", puzzles longer than any man
i know, over just-that long, lost
moment, when he was trapped in stone.

              speak of first spring love,
              speak of long lingering looks and deep, museum afternoons
              speak in the tones of your heart
              and take my hand and walk through the graveyard, in the moonlight, with me

grey narrow halls with flat grey
walls lead beyond the cocktail party
of stone, down undusted stairs and off
into tombs, unlit rooms where the unfit pieces, the discarded art, are held.

grey, here, is grey near to black
thick grey slabs of walls, and thicker
grey curtains, holding back flat placques of charcoal
grey light, and greyer silence piled in every corner.

              speak of fitful dreams
              speak through grey eyes, nervous as a heron
              speak in the long pauses of bus-station goodbyes
              speak, if you dare
              and take my hand, and walk with me, one last time.