David

In a dream, crooked nosed Michelangelo
in a studio,
the cadaver of faith lying
beside a grave robber’s spade,
tendons torn.
Midnight of Florence:
full of ghosts from Asia Minor,
float above the bitter yellow flame
of his ambition.
Whims of Lorenzo Medici, sins of pope Clement,
da Vinci’s jealousy. Who would not cringe
at the ugly master’s greed?
But Michelangelo,
squint-eyed, dark,
hunches over the monolith,
looks adoringly at the marble by candlelight.
His apprentice polishes
and polishes this boy’s nose,
penis, slingshot.
As in years to come, men would covet
his rage, handsomeness.
Women, standing before, would dream
of wrapping their legs
around the boy.