POEM LXXI: “CONSTANTIN BRANCUSI”

Materials suggest their own ends.

If someone tells you they work in watercolors,
you sigh and brace yourself
for some delicate pastel musings
on sky and sea and atmosphere
birds perched on slender twigs
endless iterations of poppy, orchid, cherry blossom.

Every photographer has silhouetted her boyfriend
against a window in the morning,
looking rugged over coffee.

And a woodcarver is bound to have a duck or two, hiding in his menagerie.

But here is a three-thousand pound chunk of granite
which looks like it could give you a hug.
A bronze arching up to be petted.
A marble, weightless as the honeycombed fiberglass that lofts an aeroplane.

They make you wonder
if inside every mountain
curls some soft organic thing
lulling itself to sleep
with the thought, the dream of floating.

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