Friday, June 24, 2011

How The Statue Became A Poet

A poet

is immovable;
hands fused across the chest,
lips undeterred by funeral,
chin down, the eyes cast
forward into time.

For time is the only thing
that counts.

But a statue breaks, real or fake.
A statue carries itself
as though weighed down
by its plaster-cast feet.
It cannot see.
It cannot feel.

For a statue is given
neither eyes nor a heart.

The poet will not allow it.

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