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On Not Writing A Villanelle

I do not want to make a stone horse
that is trying to and cannot smell the air,
said Barbara Hepworth, the woman who disappears in fire.

There is a woman who disappears in fire
every time the sun drops over the stairs
of her studio, as she makes a stone horse

which does not look like a stone horse:
she’s all for abstraction, the sculpted mare
will look like solid wood as it disappears in fire.

In the Cornish garden, bronze sculptures disappear in fire
as the sun burns through the greenhouse, on the Maidenhair
fern and Bougainvillea beneath the glass. A stone horse

among the flowers, she gets it right, a stone horse
which breathes among flowers, in a lair
of Angel’s trumpets. The pollen disappears in fire

as a fat bee glows like a coal disappearing into fire.
It spreads the pollen and goes home, where
something happens and honey is made; as a stone horse

is sculpted, something happens.  The woman, a stone horse,
the studio all burn up, there’s no air
left to breath: eyes, nostrils, hair - it all disappears in fire.