“You don’t help,” I say between tortures,
and he (because art
is evenhanded, masochistic)
gasps, “Neither do you.”
I mention this not to anchor you
in the flow, but to indicate where
in the solid block of time
this poem, this
particular flaw or subtlety may
be found
“I’m curious what you would say,”
she mused, “if they weren’t
characters in a book, but standing here?”
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
You suddenly realize he isn’t the Buddha.
He’s an impostor. But good at it:
relaxed, full lotus
without strain,