by Leo Racicot
In these rooms that hold Brueghel
the browns, the gold,
for hours on end
louder than crows,
louder than the hooves
in the pictures
blackened by cinder and soot,
louder than the flutes
no one but the player can hear,
wings too frozen to flap,
a mind too sore to think straight.
the tops of them chrome,
have been cemented into the floor
to which he is strapped
to strap his screaming.
Maybe he is making a gamble
to outshout the flat and angled landscapes,
the silence of one-dimensional men,
the injustices of history.
It's fitting these pictures watch over him;
the Masters knew the anguish of unanswered cries,
the loudness of hounds
when they see the road is covered over
by centuries of snow,
the shouts of skaters skating on a river
that never ends…
Leo Racicot is an award-winning poet & essayist from Lowell, Massachusetts.