Oozing magnanimous, your molten
talent slithers across the walls.
Leaden meteors melt, folding perpetual,
leading back to primordial tumult.
These are the liquid sculptures you dream
and understand deeply,
but you say your hands muddle intention.
You say your pewter splash is too grandiose.
I need you to remember the morning
you placed flattened musket balls
deftly along my spine. You flitted gentle
as you positioned each exploded flower
onto a vertebra with fingers
steeped heavy in grace.