sound like growths that need to be
removed, or an ancient technology left
behind by a superior otherworldly race.
Some people call them rain
barrels now, cupped hands
hoping to catch pure water
for garden use. At Quarry Farm
one sits like a monument
to American ingenuity and thrift,
near the porch and a pathway
Twain walked to his study,
imposing as the imported Spanish
olive jar Hemingway had shipped
to his house in Key West
so he could fashion a fountain
for his cats and local fauna.
This cauldron-shaped copper cistern
was unearthed next to the barn,
where it once collected water
to sustain Theodore and Susan
Crane’s dairy cows. In Key West,
cisterns were concrete, shaped
into large rectangles that now
are being exposed, gentrified
into swimming pools small
but functionally indulgent
as spring-fed Japanese baths.
Like Duchamp’s urinal turned
upside down, this cistern is art,
but without the pronouncement.
Migrating pink flamingoes,
gazing balls, or stone-faced
angels can’t compete. This art
has a beauty that comes
from appreciating a large object
cleaved from purpose. It sits there
now, like an anchor in a Yankee
waterfront square, in the buff,
ready for the next artist’s brush.
