Page 52 - flying stones

Danaid

Rodin's rough hands did partly resurrect you

from frigid marble block,
your twisted torso melted from its stone

shape of the tangled tortured corpses

ungraved by ardent intrigue and sensual intellect.

your fluid frame aches not for the reticent.

your arching bones beneath smooth patina
beseech the passionate struggle of birth.

will you arise from the creator's stand?

will artist aspiring ascend from man?

amid the studio's dark and dim

and midnight's clay-pitted moon

half-hid
shadows texture queries

across your tonal polished skin:

“You who made me,

unchipped from chiseled rock,
am I coming out or going in?”