JENNIFER BARBER
In
the Bosch Room, Downstairs at the Prado
The days are numbered,
something has to give,
torso or crotch or spindly
trees, and lizards on the bank.
A woman whose nakedness
is seen by giant starlings, whose tears
gouge pools in solid rock until
she too mus t enter in,
her curtain of hair falling
down her slender back in waves.
Bell-makers, organ builders,
prurient owls, wimpled pigs
all waiting for something
to damn them or release them
from the pale sunlight
which seals their sentences.
Even I, who don't believe
in the pinkish flames
always just out of sight
can't take the name
Hieronymous in vain, he has
foreseen my standing here
in my dark clothes and dubious century.
