king (or a
saint). Now his face melts,
displays many ages, each is
smaller and older than the last; versions of what might
had not run
arrow straight, life had
been other than carved in sandstone.
His crown (or mitre), uneven, his right eye weathered
his nose long-narrow,
crooked, his upper lip drooping
over the lower, his beard rippling like molten cheese,
comes to life,
perks up when thinking
of cheese. His left eye blinks open
for a nano-second: Mon dieu, mon dieu - ah ! Fromage !
pass through tricks
of light, his right ear
slips further down his face, cheeks sag,
eventually he regains his austerity,
to his niche
high up on the walls
of Rouen Cathedral, turn back
to sandstone, and sleep the sleep of a ripe runny Brie.