After listening to Durufle's Requiem, each cupping a dead parent in the final prayer for paradise like a candle in the wind, we sit at the edge of the square pool where these big bronze bones will not tell us what they mean. Across the street at Fordham, St. Peter casts his net of symbols to fish men to significance. But like the sculptures of Peter's God - these only offer, passively, themselves to the secret needs of our intent. Beyond the cast of Peter's net knotted with reason and justification, we sail our dead across this pool, the white paper boats of children eddying before the bronze arrangement of shapes which refuse to explain. |