You took me past the Brillo boxes
to the Sistine ceiling; there you died.
I'm not sure about the boxes.
I need to retrace my route.
Maybe somewhere, say,
between Borough Hall and Bowling Green,
you'll bring me to a wakeful dream;
or will it be the end of the line?
Arthur C. Danto, philosopher and lover of art, died last Friday, as I was reading What Art Is.
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