Lucretius Looks upon an Archaic Statue

It has a face that masks an empty stare.
Around its groin are marble curls of hair,
a lush, abundant world that moves in stone.
But we can see the hollowness beneath,
indirectly though poetic lines,
as time each perfect work of art refines,
as every poem fades... and the death
the fingers hold in place with iron pegs.
Its hands had never rested on the hips
or lightly smoothed a lover's parted lips
and never touched the roughly fractured legs --
our flesh a poor disguise upon the bone.
At the heart of things is motion, change,
as atoms swerve, align, and rearrange.


Royal Rhodes
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Royal Rhodes would be pleased to hear them