Rilke, having filed Rodin’s letters, slips
silently into the studio. Stays
at a distance. Watches the master’s lips
mumble to the armatures as he lays
on plaster. Marvels at his grace with rasp
and chisel, molding both giant, rugged shells
into pulsing hands, severed at their wrists.
They “bark like the five jaws of a dog of Hell,”
the great poet will write later of their
fingers. Rodin turns, sees his secretary
but doesn’t see him; seems to linger where
only the Muse exists. Rilke, wary
of staying longer, eases away. He
walks Rue de Varenne, remembers to breathe.
Roger Armbrust
November 20, 2015
