The Courtauld

Why am I crying when there is nothing else I can do?

Entering a room

two vast wooden chests with clawed feet

painted with scenes of medieval war

castles, nobility, succour


perspective and a little sign saying

Do Not Touch

He should want to climb in there

and return to the place he’s a child again

looking out at himself

with the pathos of his father

God it is some lovely tragedy play here

like a seeping

a wet log pressed hard and weeping

Is it loss? No.

It’s discovery of real feeling

Unavoidable at last released

It’s the First and the Last

The Time is This Time

Away from the automatic desire of lust

A glance through the window framed by the chests

where the gauze makes pointillist figures of two young women

who walk off

pointless and pointed