Into me, into all of us: the sound of the word “real”
Is meaningless now—The four out on the terrace,
The four in the basilica: the image is the same,
The expression perfect. The copper hooves balance
The weight of muscle and sinew, paradox just so:
Movement and stillness, eternal life and the moment,
Poll to hock, an impossible thereness expressed
In lost wax, lost time, lost faiths and lost credulity.
Original and replica alike, each stares at nothing,
Neighs at nothing, prances forward into no space,
Remaining in the glory of grace as if it were possible.
