This is one of the poems I have written as a tribute to Tom’s art. I hope you like it.
in the Uffizis of Tom’s art,
no attempt to conceal.
His men are not
limp figures “after the antique”,
unaroused, as yet, from the flaccid droop
of their androgyny.
No, they have burgeoned
into unabashed maturity.
His David declares himself a man,
proud of the ripe physique
with which he has been endowed
(more precocious than Michelangelo dared)
and palpably adult.
but instead: figs by the basketful
on which to glut ourselves.