The Charioteer of Delphi Dean Kostos
His robe flutes through a vertical patina.
Reins, held in his remaining hand,
ripple in implied wind, the chariot
drawn by the memory of stallions
where only the bronze fragment of one
remains, severed from the reins, the
charioteer and the endless need to arrive.
This youth resembles a weeping, mascaraed woman:
his precious stone and alabaster eyes
gaze through glazed and thorny lashes, down
to crowds of us who revere the bronze
of his unrotting flesh, knowing
we won't be so lucky. And so, we are pilgrims,
come to worship permanence and the relic
of wind held by his missing hand.
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