A reptile carved, a breath of language, one That one imagines to be real, like A lizard given life, pretend for fun, Perhaps, a supervening thought, so like A kite, but not airborne at all: We hold Its substance in our hands and come to think That this is all there is. We even hold It in our thoughts, still nameless, and we think That its vital beauty make it a part Of God. Soft, small, patina-rich, handmade From stone or bone, rhinoceros horn: its art Is in its existence, perfection paid For by its half-life in our hearts and hands. So reptilian, what poetry demands.