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In Our Own Image I, Pygmalion Press your veins to force them pumping but your lips refuse to redden you remain outside creation hovering, before the flood I am Frankenstein designing cherubs ending up with monsters blaming it on quality of blood blaming it on bad equipment lack of funds, and skulls that perforate along slim lines of bone Clay clings to he hands of all creators We heap mud in building golem stacking totem carving gopher wood and stone Our clay hands mold images for retinue but we end in catacomb or coffin dirt beneath our fingernails alone We are Van Gogh we replicate ourselves by looking into mirrors unable to afford a model or a steak But, philosophers and beggars potato eaters, starry skies sunflowers all entreat us to peer out of windows at the different kinds of dirt electrons shape We are pentimento etchings lost in caves too deep for shadow -clay dreaming clay as terra cotta armies guard our sleep |
Additional Notes:
revision of an earlier poem
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