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What of Truth?
Michael S. Morris
One almost hated to mention
that wisdom would be knifed
into his face. He was a fast
talker as if he could out-race
the razor. He didn’t get the theory
of clay, of malleability, of plasticity
He felt he was the shaper, his hands
kneading the doughy materials
seeking fertility statues of stone –
belly-smoothness. What did he think
he unsheathed when he bothered
to read, books and sword in hand?
One definitely hated to state
that his mate would be his sculptor’s
conscience, sending slab after slab
back to the quarry for marble blocks
that might contain a human being
the compression from which
if he was lucky and lived fifty thousand
years might through fire become a hardness
that under the chisel’s blow, dazzles