The couple in the museum

thinks about how they live
with each other,

how they sit to eat,
on Thursdays

quiet.

They stand looking at Chagall’s lovers
in a small room
barely aware of each other.

But Chagall’s lovers are lost in the heat
of yearning. They touch hands

breasts, lips.

They fly over houses
or kiss in the kitchen.

And the lovers on the horse are special,
you can see it in the horse’s eye

as it leaps over the sun not worried,
letting the lovers
hover beneath the  blues and greens of the moon,

carrying them away into each other.

In the museum room there is a small window. She looks

away from the blue lovers out to the lawn, to the oak
peeling its bark like skin burnt by the sun.