Father steps under the classical arch
– taking the best, leaving the world in dust –
into the sanctum of perspective and form
where inspiration runs childlike
to the shelter of skill.
With a turn of the head, shoulders braced,
father’s innocence mimics a pediment
and the lion’s immutable stare at the gate.
Father is compelled by the premise of pose,
pace, the vigor of motion
the stroke guided by rays of light.
Father condemns his genius like a gent
side-stepping hyperbole with grace
for the sake of well-cut lapels.
He is collared by the bloodless grace
of discipline in pleated linen,
the spiraled depths of still features
wearing ruby and pearl like sin,
Pan and the rotund goddess,
owl, deer, leopard, nymph
bound in love for riddled trees
and by a saint rocketing over a wall.
Father rests on downs of heroism
offering shades of silence to the sun.
Raging dappled horses transport him
to the spots and spins of abstraction
where the sky mildews the sea
in its labor towards daylight.
Father thinks up a fleet of galleons
by way of resurrection.