—for Steven, Jordan, and Sean Craig
And like The Gates of Paradise
this mass of heavy metal doors
stands motionless as lava cooled
to stone. We know the history
that lies behind them, turbulent
as magma, cold with hot desires.
They are an old volcano’s crown
and stand in silence like a wish
unspoken. When the time comes
around, they bifurcate with light.
Reversing nature’s flow, we rush
like lava drawn back to the dark.
Behind stares Rembrandt with his hat;
Gaugin displays his curl; van Gogh,
red-bearded, sports green flesh; Degas,
suspicious, pouts his lips; Cézanne,
has sketched himself alone and bald;
Pissarro etched his weary eyes.
The docent says all art is but
self-portrait. Does it follow then
the world projects the face of God?
Beneath the domed rotunda are
two children running slaloms round
black pillars holding up the sky.
