On Menzel’s Atelierwand

the cast has dissembled before. the more you study them, the more thoroughly each remark bores through. oh you! your high concepts of Art. you warn them. speak like that again.

you could easily prefer the studio to the clamorous outside world. your plans resolved bust, head and hands from dust to three rows on this studio wall. each thumbed hook,

a humble reminder of Death’s last face. the hound chased you. the child—without a trace of envy—you no longer are. they laugh

when you reach the studio wall—suggest, though in gest, you fracture into tangibles, and turn idea—that they might deftly touch.