Museum

you behind me like religion I don't want
to lose, quiet with muscles I learned from the Greeks...
Now I recognize you in the museums -
arm crooked around a farm girl or a dancer
or raising a scythe. I recognize motions
paused mid-motion like someone else's
passing car window. Either
they've been painting you for centuries
or else the bodies of men now are all
combinations of likeness and unlikeness to yours,
the first to pray through my body
to use it as a messy palette
for your own purposes. Now I've mixed it up -
this room as big as a gallery or your small bedroom,
who stood in front of whom.