JENNIFER B. CROW



LASCAUX



For ten thousand years these patient herds
have waited, their ochre backs
straining against winds that never cease.
Charcoal spears have wounded them,
and miniscule figures of men
dance in endless silent celebration around them.
They wait in darkness, peeking
out of shadows into stray cones
of light cast up by the descendants of hunters.
And still the cows are heavy with calf,
and still the bulls toss painted horns,
and we take comfort in the endurance
of art and hunger.




copyright 1998 - Jennifer B. Crow
No portion of this poem may be copied, or distributed
in any form, including printed and electronic means, without
the express written consent of the author. The only exception is
a short excerpt may be used for review purposes.
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