on the head of the bust of an angel
a winged thought prepared to drift
off the page of the sky has always
been my life’s goal before that page
is turned or I’ve been able to comply
with what I’ve learned about the plot
and musculature of the story so far
a certain self-effacement because
of moving frequently as a kid
still evident even in his body
from which Giacometti could have
taken instruction but for me
always an arrow toward love
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