THE CRAZY YOUNG LADY OF THE LOUVRE

In her twenties,

short skirt, backpack

and sneakers

she skips the circumference

of the domed hall,

her grin a twist to the mien

of Renaissance nudes

reclining in elevated oils

 

She touches each painting

with the tip of an index finger

in hasty exclamation points,

merrily skips past a drowsy guard,

face berserk with awe,

 

disappears under the arch

of the next hall

dazzled by the unreachable genius

of earthly gods

still restlessly stirring

within the mirrors of humanity

defiantly hung on the walls

of crumbling cathedrals of art

2018-12-02T02:19:23+00:00