Hermes of Olympia

After the others—struggle or charged stillness

of heroes, centaurs, gods from the temple-gables,

weight of a winged power

out of the wind alighting—

your smooth-polished lackadaisical perfection

grates.  I move away

admiring perhaps, certainly disliking.

But today

meeting your face suddenly, dark photograph

in a blown-up snapshot of Anne Frank’s wall

—her pin-ups, marking her strip of that confined world

the house behind the house in Prinsengracht—

I find it in my heart

to love you after all.