Fig. 1.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As Rodin | a nude soldier stripped of classical myth | we love 
a scandal | thrust at the viewer | in the middle 
of Salon de Paris | leaning on a spear 
suppressed | imagine The Age of Bronze
being fashioned for eighteen months | room for two
let me pose for you  | place my right hand on my crown  
to expose my ribs | insert your fingers feel for rawness and doubt 
strike with gore | in bloom debris 
flung | between your toes | define as you | please don’t mind the yelling
this is good | demand to see proof with a hammer clink bruised 
I’m convinced God sighed into my nostrils | he questioned
the smooth-surfaced classical flattening independence of light 
on a cheek | found depth | a thick pulse to grip | injected life
into stone | a torso pivoting grotesque | you’ve watched me struggle out of bed
artist’s touch left intact | I’ve traced the lines of the tattoos 

on your back | while you fingered the notches of my spine 

 

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