Rodin, "The Walking Man"
       

But when the body stands here, one foot back,
one forward, the flesh flexed in motion,
there is no moment that is not your own.
You forget your equivocating past
only to recall it the next second.

It is essential that he is headless.
Admit it: you'd be staring at his face.

This is our walk between eternities,
the one we think we know, the one we can't.

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Copyright © 2014 Peter Cooley All rights reserved
from Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission