Twist of herringbone and tie,
guidebook anxious in your grasp,
we wait as charms dangling
in the bracelet of an afternoon queue;
synchronize watches, then pass
like bookends in the Salle des États.
A tangle of art and lust, our palms
flush, while lonesome eyes chiaroscuro
from canvas-covered walls
and bullet-proof glass,
frozen in Janson History gray,
monochrome, medievally quiet.
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