Statue
Lips sticky from pollen,
segments of mid-summer
colored heat. You stood
in foam and shells
with sea salt in your hair
shimmering petals
of blood red blossom, breasts
buoyant in the archaic air.
Last time I saw you,
you were made of stone
and stood there, armless, in the
ground floor of the Louvre.
How it must have trembled,
the hand with the chisel,
the first time you disrobed.
DQ 9/21/08
DQ 9/21/08
