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A Sculptor's Day In St. George, Utah
At 6, I place two fried eggs
upon the table, a pair of tam
o'shanters, white and gold,
greet the little twisty dog
and the mildly gray and white
striped cat, song and surprise,
2 opportunities for perfection.
A block away, the whole round body
of the airedale lets go at the vet's,
his eyes floating, and he spreads his fur
coat in the arms of the freshman
helper, making her happy
who took such care of him.
At noon, I spin by the spinach
and feta dip to my plate of twiny
bonefish. Though I am in the school's
central building, I am still so hard
to identify, deep and far-going,
and am myself trying to focus
with a lonely artist's eyes
on my own walls, wanting hospitality.
But since I love above all else leaning
birds and leaning faces, I let the clay,
and not so much my conscious fingers,
build each hawk. The clay rounds off
by itself, making beaks, and comes alive
like golden bees streaming after incense
through a lighted gallery, like old men
attempting to put on independence
and to communicate renewal instead
of hobbling in every turn.
At 7, after dinner, I hear the squawk
of clearance from the tightknobbed
tree, the hawk hovering and then,
like a wild gendarme fighting his heavy
duty, rising up to light the sky, profile
against the smoky moon that drains
all color from the blue spruce
in Zion's brightest mountain range.
He is, I think, the graphic art
that in the charcoal clouds draws
all that I imagine to be real
hawk modeling all my cragginess.
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