they opened the found temple,
iron-grey Readymade girders
wheeled off, distant and up in the
corners, whilst black pegs, trussed angrily into tiny tripods,
Down by his right foot,
a little oxidised dusk rose-
a yellow scribble in the torchlight;
scoring over, settling into tiny mineral flecks.
The Hand is Stone
as white as char-
a breath, and she could flutter,
softened carbon, streaking the nuts and bolts
with her nothing.
She has naught to say;
no plaque prescribes her deification, nor great deeds, nor date.
Her steaming rock face
far above them,
as these ancients of Magritte placed her.
Her dusky suitors squint aloft,
hurling shadows up
in the hope
that understanding will dislodge, and
upon their upturned brows.
She was not beloved; the beloved returns
Her lover’s gaze.