The sculpture, peeling away its skin
of stone, and coming to life,
too shy of the light,
becomes a dark shape
lurking within its curtain of shadows.
hammered to its feet
has cursed the rain and the wind
the flung droppings of bats
and the desolate spaces of solitude.
It is possible that
sculptures overflowing with God’s grace
walk about as goddesses
where man’s gaze is unknown,
in ruined halls, perhaps,
or in the recesses of tall temple towers