Atlas has only the burden of the material against which he struggles—
raw marble, a torso, one shoulder, one heroic arm.
His arm pushes mightily against a dead weight
and disappears inside it, as if weight itself had a secret chamber
where one could think things through, away from the crowd.
His head’s in there too, thinking
of mind over matter or matter inside mind or the other way round.
Big mind is like a sky vault or like a mountain,
hard to support with the head alone.
And yet one needs a head to figure out
How mind attaches to the stuff we’re made of.
From “Three Slaves by Michelangelo Buonarroti”, Camille Norton, Corruption, 2005, p. 21