May Swenson: “The Tall Figures of Giacometti”
We move by means of our mud bumps.
We bubble as do the dead but more slowly.
The products of excruciating purges
we are squeezed out thin hard and dry.
If we exude a stench it is petrified sainthood.
Our feet are large crude fused together
solid like anvils. Ugly as truth is ugly
we are meant to stand upright a long time
and shudder without motion
under the scintillating pins of light
that dart between our bodies
of pimpled mud and your eyes.