1993

1993

1993

That was a strange encounter late last year.
Turning from the musée to the park
I saw them concentrated under trees,
a group of statues idle in a row,
Daphnes, Dianas, Apollos, Acteons . . .
waiting to be demolished, or restored
and redeployed and put back in our lives?

Everywhere, I thought, statues are coming down,
leaving their stations, their pigeons, their squares,
stepping off high horses, pedestals, fountains,
leaving their pillars, their airs and their bases,
they come down to earth as if getting off thrones,
everywhere people reshaping their lives.

Some look like bathers enjoying a beach,
others like mannequins waiting for clothes,
others ponder like cows in a field.

Elsewhere in Europe statues are falling,
dynamite helping or pulled down by rope.
But here they are waiting for milder reasons
like people who shelter a while from rain.