Atlas Shrugged

Atlas Shrugged
(BB #6)

Lotus leaves in fountain pools behind the
Metropolitan Art Museum reflect sun rays,
but not in ways Monet would understand.
Cellos ascend to bless the ears of diners
from the donor class, while those lily pads
and lotus landings resonate on levels only
guessed at by geniuses and amateurs alike.
Room after room after room after room after
room stun mere humans with the peak
moments of nearly all the masters: ancient
relics full of universal hum. Feeling visitors
tear up, once cynical multi-cultural couples
soften in amazement. The hoity-toity mingle
with Asian tourists in a surreal scene Yves
Tanguey would get a kick out of. But it’s the
quiet ripples in the pool out back, the tumbling
leaf in the now-safe park, the sad chatter
of the magnet peddler whose addiction isn’t
clear, but whose profit must be small, that fill
sensory memory to capacity.



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