Filtering through the pupils, round-
ing out the image. Curving out
the niches in her, statuesque.
Marble, white over the
not heat. Spite, not burning anger.
Red, the soft flames of her hair
Red, the hard beat of my heart.
The bloodshot greeneye image
at three o'clock in the morning,
the turning clock. The moving hands.
Marble becomes me; you are warming
somewhere else. Touch the stone.
I have no right to want you as I do.