we’re here to see henri’s cutouts
his colour, the last things he poured
into the world that make
us marrow happy
we’ve come early, missed the crowds
we luxuriate, discuss curation
where does art stop
being the artist’s
when assistants help make the work
at hirst, we agree, murakami
at matisse? no
the difference between a conveyer belt
and standing on a box on a chair
having someone hold the scissors and glue

a woman
blows her nose endlessly
people murmur here i forget
i’m not in italy, hear my voice pitching
receive the hushing glare
gallery soundtrack edited
same schoolma’am voice leaking
from the ears of headsets
who herd their listeners in front of us
i wonder if they’d have the same idea
about a piece if they’d come deaf
like me, who knows very little
and paid no visible attention at school
photosynthesising for myself
the world ever new
the plot behind characters
the trickery of subtlety
block colours
wild kelp, child-cut stars
arcing swallows

the last work in stained glass
‘christmas eve’
cobalt so luminous
i taste
copper salt at the back of my mouth
and for just a little bit
i don’t have to speak