I, Michelangelo, sculptor in Rome,
of my fatherís bone, am known and unknown;
reputed in good will, as well as ill,
for arrogant talons that temper stone,
cast in cognitive raiments to render
the unseen, seen; the unheard of, heard.
At birth, I redesigned my motherís womb.
Now I shape stone for Juliusí tomb.
Most do not know me, my limestone fingers,
arsenic smiles under deep knotted brows.
Some view the world as it is, I see how
it could be, a matter of subtraction;
just cut out what is not David or Moses.
Even the Earth is a stone, it poses
with mottled dreams & covenants broken,
chiseled nightmares, allegiance unspoken.
From Godís energetic hand to Adamís,
From Adamís to mine, the fresco of life,
I am bound to relate white blocks to swirls.
Copious robes, beards with abundant curls
—all set in marble; my foresight the knife,
my insight the mallet, chipping corners
of negative space to refurbish my purse,
my hand back to Godís, Creation reversed.