written in the n.p.g.

a rich gold scarf does bind his forehead. jaw
of divine carving, he will gaze until
we all have crumbled into dust and bone.
he holds the midpoint, some curator’s will
to herald hedonistic man’s delight
has kept him cardinally on this wall.
i wonder would we know his face at all,
had desperate hearts been satisfied and right.
behind me, on the left is one who gave
much deeper praise to that which selfish man
took and took and took because ‘we just can’;
he is peasant poetry, calm and grave.
nature’s deft spokesman, soft as summer’s breeze
in orange fields immortal with sweet ease.


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