A single bite from the center of each of six lamb chops
was Einstein’s dinner.
He did not like fat.
He gave the remainders to his sister, his daughter,
his lover . . .
His lover’s husband was, like Einstein, a gentle man.
A sculptor, Russian, he worked
on West 8th, though, like Einstein, lived
in the immensity of the cosmos.
He made swan-shaped chairs, dwarves
taking tea, wooden boxes with wooden keys,
saints and girls and nudes. A child full of wonder,
recalled his model. A saint
seeing the macrocosm in every tiny piece of life. While she posed
a mouse stood on her shoe.