I make statues of what I love
Which are stood free of my corruption
On the mantles of other worlds,
Beacons to the art of the ever there.
They are cast in the ore of wintered rock
Beaten to form in the weathers
That outlast the will of the skin
To dress time’s dancers tomorrow.
They are set against brief Intention
Beyond the sea change of most answers
Unpressed by the moist fog of touch,
On the plinth of a lawless dream.
These statues which come of my love
Resist the elements and all the arts
That have to be shared, or tested;
The mute flames of my failed contact.