Hilary Dobel

Aristotle Contemplating a bust by homer

The sculptor wanted us to know the bard

was blind, so took his thumbs and rubbed out spots

where eyes would be. His face is bright and worn

but sweet from want of rest like those reflected

on the subways in the dark. I always fear

someone will see me here with all this art,

the riot shield I hold between my money

and myself. How I’ve acted for

each object, its demands (the table is

a woman, she is burdened), or thought that I

was strong enough to place my hand against

the fleshy flat of earth and feel it tilt,

not knowing that the world will move of its

desire for sun. I know my own place better,

now. Bent, I straighten, want home, and find it.