The squeal of the dump trucks
backing up—another tower rising
above the slate rooftops (balky,
brutish, sub–Mies van der Rohe)—
were cries of dying pigs.
The sun smoldered again,
lifting its head above the horizon
only to be wreathed in cloud,
beset like a perfectly good knock-off,
seen a thousand times, of some
Baroque fantasia of foreshortened
gods, their feet trailing over
cloud edge, putti swarming about
like mosquitoes, the whole wrapped—
no, enveloped—in a frame plastered
with beading, rosettes, gadroons
gilded to the life if nothing else.
The gods, occupied with gossip
and quarrel, with a little hanky-panky
thrown in for measure,
never looked below,
for what apology does art promise
beyond the nakedness of art
or gods, for that matter?
