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Now this is odd, that a statue of a man
on a horse stands still, but a painting
of the statue (stillness doubled) moves,
its icy pallor catching a ghostly infusion
of blood warmth from spring sunlight.
It surprises these buildings too. The dark,
vine-tarnished one begins to dream
of rolling over, squirming, stretching
in the grass. It would beg to be scratched,
but is shy.
The blue-shadowed pink house is already
on the move, sunshine fueling it, propelling it
forward as violently as the statue pulls
away from us (for we are foreground,
the stillness in which this motion occurs).
The trees don't notice the statue's prancing.
Their stillness is the instantaneous branching
flash of lightning that lingers, to which
mere animal motion seems a statue's stone,
which, when art strikes, becomes, in a flash,
the still lightning of a tree,
as the jerky spasms of our looking become,
with an artist's touch on the reins,
the stillness of knowing.
October 6, 2002