Stabile

So black weight at ground zero quite a while

Could be dark forebodings bent over double,

Could be holes to cause astronomy trouble

Or heavy metal black cat’s cheshire smile.

Though Alexander Calder didn’t mind

As to fame they bulked or oblivion sank

By road or field or forecourt of a bank,

Inkdrop giants the artist left behind.

He, a dead weight alive unto himself,

Wielded welding for us, as if to say

Here is the bird thou never wert;

Torched and bumped the inert into ert,

Angle ground riveted all night and day

Solid shadow, a shadow of itself.