They've bred some sickness
into you, I think, that you
can't see the beauty

in his stone flexion,
feel the muscles spring ready
under smooth marble

gleaming white like the
bronzed flesh must have gleamed with oil.
How Polykleitos

lovingly crafted
those strong arms, skillfully placed
each perfect leg to

nature's preference.
His face is lifeless yet but
each limb sings tension

and then sweet release.
Humanity has perched like
a halo on his

head. You cry obscene--
you've made some mistake, I think:
he has a penis,

yes, but all men do.
There's nothing pornographic
in nature's mold, nor

in the sculptor's hands.
You might as well besmirch
the cherry tree for

its sweet flowers, the
deer which grazes tenderly
on the young grass, the

sun which rains warmth from the sky.