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Primrose Hill is a good place to watch the clouds implode,
transposed, if you like, into marble body parts,
each one sacrificing an arm or a leg.

The men, broad and muscular, eyeing one another’s rank,
the women, demure in their company.

The monks, banished from Florence, en route to exile in Venice .
Languish in the heat.

The poets, at the heart of it all, perish in the same sense,
evaporating in the palm of God’s hand.

Then Michelangelo himself
turns to look at his unfinished bust.

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