And a bas-relief of hands paint ceiling for sky.
If an expression is "real" it must survive every moment
Move like a Pieta of muscles, nerves and grace
Or frolic in the mind's eye like a Sybil
Whose nakedness flaunts triumph.
And a wet nurse milks the stonecutter's tool.
But if the canvas is illusion, fold the unfinished arms,
Temper the face with crayon, let the head
Bounce from its natural apex
And ready the cartoon to easel.