The near past and the near future are poor,
with no accession of hands, no bright legs —
useless, untender absences with bronze torsos.
Each day, there is the hollow of good works
and inside that, an hour with the statues
I have collected of such hard torsos,
parts of bodies I cannot comfort
with hands and legs, features and good works.
For my own comfort, I press my face against them,
It makes the bronze strange and that eases
the occult poverty of the hour,
a body smaller than mine. I’m poor. My house
has no hands or legs and the near silence
of the statues dies away as I move closer.