DELPHI IN ARDEN
The Great Beast dear old 666 wrote rhymes on Rodin’s more popular
sculpture, echoed Byron, Clough, Tennyson though he hoped for Browning thinking
Paracelsian adept, and Bourdelle is it put Rodin’s head
on the little Pan with goats, copy in the pool we found nearly dry with
sand in and tried to pick pennies up, stopped by a guard with static at his belt, this
awkwardness where none might have been expected (history of where the
marble came from floated down past cities named in ancient poems carved
legibly or reachably on the slab) a quadrant from Pan and a torso rugged
as a guttered candle vaginal spine crushed in, this excess for his usual trick
of bending the bendable.
Start at the body and work out, contemplate the rubberized wire soap rack we know
is sold somewhere for the bathtub we’ll be leaving (which has a swan decal,
relic of a taste with Coole behind, debased) no golden dawn from hideous
reflections learned in art school how to make the porcelain its lights.
Think of what we do as like Descartes’s reduction of a candle to imagined primary qualities if meditation
stopping there felt it possible but impolitic to go on, potential more than evocation, triangular
stage to concretize what may have a vis, force outside what you right then predict.
Nymphs not having cloven hooves which in the dictionary bottom view are like a leafnosed bat are sexually dimorphic
and driven Keats says from the wood by Oberon about the time various natural bridges fell in Dis
our vision fogged by fumigants as if some Frenchman’s idea of time, imaginary
pyramid to be projected up about halfway from the Eiffel Tower’s fourfold base, and underground, balanced octahedron.