Musée d’Orsay
They stroll in and out of the haze of time. Peering at the fractured light of the Impressionists, Not single selves but consolidations Of memories, flickering among brush strokes. And you in a rowboat in the Fifties, Squinting at picnickers at Bethesda Fountain. Above them, bicyclers hunched over and unafraid Race into Harlem, their bodies…