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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