afternoon at the museum

In the bookshop of the cultural center of Belém, also known as Museu Coleção Berardo, west of Lisbon, one of the girls adresses me in French, apparently because of the book I bought, a bilingue edition with sonnets of Luis de Camões.
On her face I try to trace the French I heard.

What I really like is the face of the black girl, tuned with ancient eyes
at ease with gods and beasts
all of a sudden wearing nothing else but clothes. Next to me on a black leather seat
we both look at the names on the wall in front of us:

Bernd & Hilla Becker, Carl Andre, Marcel Broodthaers, Alighiero Bickerton, Jimmie Durham, Dennis Oppenheim, Bill Viola,
Sigmar Polke, Louise Bourgeois,
Dan Flavin,
Gerhard Richter,
Matt Mullican, Thomas Ruff, Wolf Vostell
and many others.

What I really like is the face of the black girl.
A man with roots unknown, apart from the Adidas blue beneath his gaze, steps to the bathroom.

Pleasant seats make pleasant habits. Apart from the thousand corpses it is the only work that may have took a day.

And what really touched me: there she sat, looking at the screen of an iPad.

Seen from the terrace el Tejo had nothing else but the sound of seagulls.
A cargo took the river under a sky as grey and white as toilet paper.