You find me in the secret place, that corner of
Rodin’s woods where his statues begin to thin,
forlorn in a sparseness of tourists who never
stray from the path or their first language,
where I’ve begun to wonder if I’m visitor
or visited, the wax heartbeat of a hot day.
You drag me to the shade where we hide from
the curator, wait for her to chain the gates,
lock us up in some out-of-hours limbic limbo,
insisting I’m a real boy: that an original rhythm
still thumps in me. — there’s room for two more here,
is what you said — already our skin peeling,
unfurling around ankles, discovering each
The last light meets an unfettered moment, burns out
on our Balzac bodies, verdigris busy on new bronze.
Miguel Jacq (Victoria)