Peter Douglas
RODIN'S STARE
In the museum garden,
Rodin figures, muscles rolling through
their skin, stand as though caught
by the fragrant grasses,
and cornered, unable to decide which
varieties to delve toward, trapped
in the centers of concrete vistas --
the stench of tubular onion throbbing
here and there (the hot watering it would mean
to grab them by the roots),
the cool tint of a rare, odd splotch of bluegrass
just out of sight, and calling for a turning
of the head, the impossible wildflowers --
Monet goldenrod, blue and buttercup --
in an undeveloped mud field, paled by the sun,
big, mustard-steel construction machines,
surrounding, like circling wagons --
the impossible wildflowers,
the impossible field.
We walk about, and I see dying leaves
brushing the feet of these statues. It's
Spring now, but there will be cracking
leaves in six months -- will we be here,
still -- in late August,
or early September?
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Date of Birth:
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12/12/78
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Location:
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Stanford, California & Washington, DC
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Email:
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peterdls@stanford.edu
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Email:
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The Red Booth Review, Paperplates, The Hollins Critic, Rattapallax, The Tucumcari Literary Review, Writer's Journal, The Mind's Eye
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