The sculptor sits with his head in his hands,
waiting for the committee to stop deliberating
as they bicker within earshot of his angel statue
white marble luminous in the midday sun.
Should its eyes be blindfolded? A spear through
its ribs? Would it be better with shattered wings?
The days of triumphalism are ended, belonging only
to history books, everything should now display
its wounds to reflect the vulnerable world.
On and on they argue. What is wounded enough?
How much is hyperbole? The sculptor shapes in his mind
an angel of yore, wings outspread, devoid
of the sunglasses of irony, the sneakers of modernity,
ready to soar away from all of this.

Patrick Cotter's most recent poems have appeared in the Financial Times, London Review of Books and Poetry (Chicago)