By Rainer Maria Rilke

We’ll never know the incredible head
where his eyes ripen like apples. No,
but that torso is a gas lamp, and in its glow
his gaze does appear, turned down instead,

but hovering, glistening. Otherwise the arc of his breast
wouldn’t dazzle you, and in the slight
twist of his loins a smile wouldn’t alight
in the center, where the virile parts nest.

Otherwise this stone would be stunted, marred
under those shoulders that plunge hard,
wouldn’t flicker like a wild animal’s coat;

wouldn’t burst from its edges, knife
like a star: there’s nowhere on him so remote
it doesn’t see you: you’ve got to change your life.

Translation © 2014 by Zack Rogow

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