His lines are of air,
his models caged in iron curves.
Verity, turned to his hand
in fire. Bow of ribs,
hollow, poised pelvis:
sculptures like ancient orators.
And we, silent spectators,
we know all this has always been.
And after the wine, the evening, the meal:
the essential, words,
the nakedness of sounds around a table
Man turns to stone, tractable,
shoulders strained, bearer of shafts:
he completes their soaring flight.
Mud embraces the sleeping stone,
a dormant volcano, but:
so vulnerable, this thin air
beneath his blazing, watchful gaze.
Erna, 5 mei - 9 juli 2007
