For Lynda Benglis

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.


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