The Sculptor recoils at the mess made

♦

The stone may remain
a mark, a mary,
an adam or a bone,
and thus, it surpasses us.

Immortal or always dead-
This
does not explain
heat retention
or justify the cold
kept on and in.

♦

Medusa met her match in a mirror,
a moment forestalled by the vividness-
as perpetual disturbance or hair on end-
as in, the felt self
never having been
so repulsed before

She,
sentenced to see, only.
Muted.
She makes more matter
for company-posterity,
as in a collective semblance
with what is given.

♦

By stone, in stone
the smallest settle
together. Bolder.

Be-cause con-crete crystals,
gold dust flecks spark-les
closer to the smooth surface.

Reflection, like passing winds
erode the images cast in like-ness
breaks down
all That
the stone hoped to be.

♦


Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme, Pygmalion, and Galeta in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The early bird on the horizon line

A line
           is thrown out...there
A line is
           connection of the dots
           summarized by stretching spheres
lined up
like ducks
cluck clucking
in a row
Row,
row your boat by
                            parallel plotter
                                                   navigating the stream
                                                 
Tow the line
                    holding by a lifeline
                                                    hiking the EKG
Wait
        in line
wait for it
               carried down the line
               a vibration
               a sensation
                                 The Ripple-
                                    -r-i-p-p-l-e-
                                         effect
a lure lingers on the line
                                  barbed edges await
                                                                 an inevitable lineal fate
a direction
                 to take
                 to make
out side the lines
                            a circle of infinity
keeps out
               traps in, depending on where you begin
a snap is shot,
                     tracing the trajectory
                                                     tightening the arrow
in array
A line
          a single point of origin
                                              genetically tangled
entwined in limpid lineage
by dates and fates
                             times arrow
                                               on a string
A line we follow to the T
A line we cannot see
A line we fall for
hook
line
and
sinker
The line is cast
we are the worm.



Image by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, from Jerusalem-Plate 78.