A sword in his right hand, a stone in his left hand,
He is naked.
Shod and naked.
Hatted and naked.
The ribbons of his leaf-wreathed, bronze-brimmed
Are tasseled; crisped into the folds of frills,
Trills, graces, they lie in
Among the curls that lie in
Upon the shoulders.
Lightly, as if accustomed,
Loosely, as if indifferent,
The boy holds in
The stone moulded; somehow, by the fingers,
The sword alien, somehow, to the hand.
The boy
Said of it: "There is none like that."The boy
Body shines in freshness, still unhandled,
And thrusts its belly out a little in
Shamelessness.
Small, close, complacent,
A labyrinth the gaze retraces,
The rib-case, navel, nipples are the
Of a face that holds us like the whore Medusa's--Of a face that, like the genitals, is sexless.
What sex has victory?
The mouth's cut Cupid's-bow, the chin's unwinning
Are tightened, a little oily, take, use, notice:
Centering itself upon itself, the
Body with its too-large head, this
Fruit now forever g!een, this
And efficient elegance draws subtly, supply,
Between the world and itself, a
Line of delimitation, demarcation.
The body mirrors itself.
Where the armpit becomes breast,
Becomes back, a great crow's-foot is slashed.
Yet who would
The sleek flesh so? the cast, filed, shining flesh?
The cuts are folds: these are the folds of
That closes on itself as a knife closes.
To so much strength, those overborne by
Seemed girls, and death came to it like a girl,
Came to it, through the soft air, like a bird-So that the boy is like a girl, is like a
Standing on something it has pecked to death.
The boy stands at ease, his hand upon his hip:
The truth of victory.
A
Angelic, almost, in indifference,
An angel sent with no message but this
And alone, now, in his triumph,
He looks down at the head and does not see it.
Upon this
As upon a spire, the boy David dances,
Dances, and is exalted.
Blessed are those brought
Blessed is defeat, sleep blessed, blessed death.
The right foot is planted on a wing.
Bent back in
Upon a supple knee--the toes curl a little,
The crag upon which they are set in triumph--The left leg glides toward, the left foot lies uponA head.
The head's other wing (the head is
And winged and helmeted and bodiless)Grows like a swan's wing up inside the leg;
Clothes, as the suit of a swan-maiden clothes,
The leg.
The wing reaches, almost, to the
Small childish buttocks.
The dead wing warms the leg,
The dead wing, crushed beneath the foot, is swan's-down.
Pillowed upon the rock,
Goliath's
Lies under the foot of David.
Strong in defeat, in death rewarded,
The head dreams what has destroyed
And is untouched by its destruction.
The stone sunk in the forehead, say the Scriptures;
There is no stone in the forehead.
The head is
Or else, unguarded, perfect still.
Borne high, borne long, borne in
The head is fallen.
The new light
As if in tenderness, upon the face--Its masses shift for a moment, like an animal,
And settle, misshapen, into sleep:
Snores a little in satisfaction.
Donatello,
Bronze.
Museo Nazionale,
Florence.
