[Piazza D’Italia, Giorgio de Chirico, 1913]
I hang back detached at day
as workers reticulate my effigy–grid by grid,
scaffolding forms a skeletal shape
and at night I approach.
Now it is mine alone.
Hidden yet in placental black,
This embryonic rack is stacked
against the pitch of night
like a disintegrated mannequin
as a sexless wicker curse on the uterine sky.
Soon it will scratch, bite, claw, brashly
each day to spit upon scrawny ,
firming to unquestionable place
But at night it is mine.
I climb the filigree steel
(a puppet’s mistress) like a mutant puppet scaling cold lace
and then I arrive at my height.
I dangle my legs nonchalant
above ground’s detritus.
My relic lets me in and I sleep
concrete between its ribs.
By day, I hang back
as workers grid by grid
reticulate a skeletall
shape, a scaffolding.
At night, I approach.
Alone it is mine
in placental black.