A chill passed through me last night.
From the Hermitage.
From the vast collection of gold
and gardens,
faces,
the stone of love,
men and women born in quarries.
Under the arctic sun,
a city of snow.
It entered my bones in bed,
among the treasures of the ages.
In my solipsism I asked,
does the beauty of the world
fall in me?
Is it gone when I am gone?
Who in the Hermitage stands guard?
Who locks the doors to vandals?
How much is metaphysical?
How much, if all,
is the warmth of my blood,
the sea of my soul?
And I shivered,
holding my pillow,
simple me,
with a Hermitage to guard,
and no place else to go.