It was almost a lark, finding a day
to play at adultery and yes, view the art.
In their fantasies, everything was foreseen
except this: how each paintings field of force
would suck them in, send them through its lens
so that they emerged behind the machinery of effects,
focused, intensified, almost touching.
That they would always have,
the day framed in a kind of catalog raisonné,
projects they had worked on,
Savery, the Maes, a Chinese scroll.
And as they were worked upon,
what had the paintings seen?
Times long cold corridor,
two figures together then apart,
motionless and moving. >