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.


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