In the Sculpture Garden

A woman beautiful as marble, a curve of stone descending her back between twin hollows, Iron scrollwork at the meeting of her thighs, standing tall against the wind, the Gentle Eden of her face, carved by an artist’s hand and a touch of heaven. And I, in contrast, a lion, my paws both placed upon your shoulders at dawn, I stand with the strength of my sails, bending to converse with your soul, not to worship, not to allow myself to burst through you like water. Like a beast tethered by a rope, here I am a man! Will you turn your back to me? My desire prevails, and you drink it down. My senses moving over your body as it softened, they registered no impression of your pale gaze. I quiver, my women, from beauty and vanity, to find myself at the foot of my life, knowing not of the fruit of knowledge. A woman beautiful as marble, I shall not see you when all is ended; in the sculpture garden, I shall wander blind.