MUSEOLOGICAL Comments

For J.H.
There is no place
for the restless. Art
will not come home again,
its hiding-place knows no time

For every ambush
a hop, step and a jump, a
hazardous stint in the daring
dark

How many notes lose
their footing, what turmoil
soughs on: we caress shrill
strings

A rip has gouged out
beauty in canvas, in the street
a can of coke kicked
into a sculpture lies muted,
Nothing asks for a plinth

We croon dissonances
in the trees now it is getting
late and on the evening lake
the madness of the moon
once again is mirrored
in us
...
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