Standing Forms

The city is a collage of standing forms, abstract

from a distance

up close, each shape has

purpose, narrative, name

I turn from the window to face the room

a meditation in grey, quiet

but for the whirring of poison pumping into bluish veins

assassins sent after killer cells

and us, chattering as though we were in the launderette

with no mother to tell us hush

Later we walk through an arrangement

of Hepworth’s life, simplified for easy digestion

a version of events and works with small cards that point

toward an end, as though that really could be the case

the curator narrator reshaping, retelling, whittling away at

her life

shapes carved from wood and stone resemble parts taken

from a body, the remains of something that was once whole

now set apart for close scrutiny, some are strung across, a memory

of connective tissue, tendons, tension, taut with energy

that a clean sharp slash of blade

would release

she made a series of sketches of surgical procedures

the words say

anyone can see that these masked and gowned figures

are sculptors in their ceremonial robes

practising the solemn art

remaking, reforming

We walk in the afternoon light, tinted with autumn

you show me your head

smooth and brown as polished wood

your eyes alive and laughing, beautiful

we dance beneath Emeline’s statue

our shadows long and girlish, the past clings

in the tunnel we lean against each other

spectral bodies flash past

we are still there

standing forms.