Pastorals in the Atrium

The tour has only started when

I’m ambushed by that flat-lined verdigris I’d know even

as a stumbling sleepwalker: landschap

with tin river, cleaver of sodden pastures — 

marvelous for painters,

says the docent, was the enormity

of the sky, rarely cloudless, and she’s already

turning to an Italian hillscape when I say wait! this is

my bloodstream, as my finger makes brief

unintended contact with the canvas,

and then my voice an ambulance

I tell her there should be a diagram

to indi