the effort isn't available to anyone, nor ought it be
We held the sculpture
like an army holds a castle
I have just caught a moth
under a demitasse on the table.
Lipsticked and heeled
we ticked away from the crowd
through its rusted arcs,
part canyon, part propeller,
a bit swoony inside its weight, height
running hands (out of sight
of the guards) over the surface
the one on the patio stays warm
for hours—you can feel the heat
just radiating off
and arrived at the spiral's
torqued off plumb,
big, bright, open to the ceiling.
they built a moving wall
into the museum so it
could be hauled in by crane
While we were there,
no one would enter the space—
peeking into the steel clearing
then turning to slip back through
its darker corridors—and we
fluttery with wine
felt so powerful: conquerors.
The moth doesn't feel this way.
Though the cup is translucent
probably glowing like the inside
of an egg, I can hear the whisper
of her panic against the clay
when I slip a card under
to carry her to the door, I will feel it
and when she's gone,
the brown powder of her alarm
will coat the cup like a glaze.