Nothing defies artistry
Like the deification
Of desire as stunning love.
No tradition, no genre,
No compounded metaphor
Can stabilize that sculpture.
Museums scavenge odd parts,
Sublime, embracing torsos,
Astonishing eyes aloft,
Even the singular hand
Gesturing exquisitely,
The figurine, small, grotesque,
A butterfly on a peg
Backlit against blue satin,
Both moving and disturbing
The peace of the casual
Visitor, like all lovers
And all loves disturb the peace.
One thing that I will predict:
It will be a trick to find
Bits of me that aren't you, too.
