Brancusi’s Golden Bird

The toy

become the aesthetic archetype

As if

some patient peasant God

had rubbed and rubbed

the Alpha and Omega

of Form

into a lump of metal

A naked orientation

unwinged unplumed

the ultimate rhythm

has lopped the extremities

of crest and claw

from

the nucleus of flight

The absolute act

of art

conformed

to continent sculpture

—bare as the brow of Osiris—

this breast of revelation

an incandescent curve

licked by chromatic flames

in labyrinths of reflections

This gong

of polished hyperaesthesia

shrills with brass

as the aggressive light

strikes

its significance

The immaculate

conception

of the inaudible bird

occurs

in gorgeous reticence