The Six of Calais
My love of sculpture, I proclaimed in the garden,
is a love of dick-shaped beef
By leading men, by espalier
the trees were being trained
into a perfect diamond gate on the wall.
Like a vine? but it's not like a vine;
a vine is guided from all sides
& so mostly free
I think this is called crotch angle
We just walked in,
& cornered the Six Burghers of Calais
They seemed to writhe & twist, accused
(others drew near too, one with leather shoes)
Imagine a thousand ocean liners
roughly the weight of Deimos,
the Martian moon
which is not spherical
falling through space
Some things shouldn't happen.
I thought of that man at the Bluebird Diner...
How he might be cheating on his wife
not with women but with food,
Stretching his insides
And like a bugler cool the dead with his breath.
I hate the flat black shapes, Calders
I hate sculpture!
I'm what you bump against
to see a painting or a sackcloth
I'm a bad-luck human, Philadelphia
I need great works.
The strong bronze palm & thumb,
his cheek engorged like a bobbing planet
It's cast, not ground down or swole up;
I touched it.