Apollo on the Bechstein.

   This oval magnanimity lies
   on the Bechstein, all curves,
   caught, held static as
   the rubble of rings round Saturn.
   Now, you see, Brancusi
   carved it out of the meshes I
   have glimpsed in the barks
   of some trees and in lead.
   Yet it is liquid as grass
   and like it could be troubled
   into a tidal wave by a nether
   wind. I laid my hands upon
   it and lifted it just an inch
   off the surface. It slid
   in my palm like the glistening
   inner space of a peach nut
   split open. For what it was
   seemed not so much a head of
   a sleeping god but the captive
   second when I had lain
   my head against a cold stone parquet
   by the sea and felt the fire
   within me that outfurled diamonds