When I Walk out of the Museum

When I walk out of the museum

The wall of sudden light makes me crinkle up my nose

And standing, coat half on, between marble columns

I sneeze into the wind

When I walk out of the museum

I have centuries of dust behind my eyes

I hunch a little bit

From the culminated weight of all these other peoples' ideas

I see a tipped over garbage can blowing in the street

When I walk out of the museum

I think about a snorkeler surfacing tangled in kelp

That is me writhing, wild attention, glancing around

The huge museums door behind me slam

And I flinch

In all of these brief flashes of momentary clarity

The emptiness that cuts through

Is like a bowl beneath the sky

Empty, not yet pregnant

Fertile, without form

It terrifies me, the raw possibility

And I want to go back inside

But when I walk out of the museum

Everything I see seems rippling and alive

On a freezing January day

Everything

The museum

And the garbage

And the internet

And the constellations

All collapse into a heap

And light floods out

From this compost pile