after the statue of the same name,
by Alberto Giacometti
The name of a sculpture,
nature of the life we all lead.
At minimum, he was honest, in bronze
faceless and nameless spotlight beam.
They do not gaze for too long,
must not face that break between his fingers cupped,
the expanse of invisible, a field of giants
to be crossed with iron webbed feet drunken,
a tower to be scaled in gripless gale and ice,
a map to be read ragged and stained, the marked spot
vanished.
I stare at the abyss, long to pry bronze hands apart,
wrench in between, the connections attached,
melded to knowing seer, into that void.
Perhaps it is time to close your hands.
-- Rich Furman