Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Sculptress Dreams

All she wanted was somebody
who would look her in the eye. Then
one evening as she spindled, clumped,
defied, massaged and spun striated clay,

a blooming creature suddenly
and readily made way, loomed up –
achieved gaze-level height – then
in a trance, advanced: held her in sight –

and ever since they have prolonged
the yearned-for night. Neither one’s
begun to fade: they’re too content
whoever made them made them.

Pygmalion is Galatea: an estuarial
translation of existence and idea –
of chance and fate. Maybe we would
rather meet our maker than our mate.


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