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Archaic Torso
You would have a childhood—unembarassed
doodles colliding into stained-glass windows
of cartoon nothingness. Your mother's garden
torn by an arctic blast. And now. And soon.
Some great erotic root splitting miles of poured
concrete—suburbs you would claim as a life
hardly lived. How quickly the self dissolves
in hearsay's acid bath. Flesh knows no future
but itself, each of us mining a secret dream
till we have tasted the deepest salt. All of us
money-starved and guru-crazed, empty pages
still trying to coax anxiety out from twenty-
something skin, ungroomed forsythia bramble
sparking electric yellow along the Jersey Pike—
hedges of it right on cue beckoning another
spring. Like runes on a Mayan stela overgrown
with vines. Or Rilke sizing up that immortal
torso just days before leaving Rodin for good.
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