her in all nakedness of thought

lips on the verge of parting
bare throat and burgeoning breast

her assiduously known perfection
a superficiality token
of the artist’s great worth

for the raw is valued far less than the sculpted
material to be pillaged and looted

rather than applauded and curtsied
eyelids and nostrils tremble of desire
her thoughts naked and shamed.

A poem to pave my way to see the Rodin Sculptor and Storyteller art exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago.  I think I will go alone. If possible.  This will leave me more time to sit and ponder and not be shoved towards the door. Rodin is not to be taken in an hour. Even a day is not going to be enough to fully appreciate the exhibit.  Now to plan when to go…

Art Poetry

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