what fragments lay in stone and silent wait for sunrise creeping stealthily through dark to back-light marbled forms who knew Petrarch truncated arms which strain to touch and sate a cold and calculated yearning carved in everlasting porous rock compressed as otherworldly beauty barely dressed they stand exposed and gorgeous, proud yet starved to feast on passion's fragments etched inside by sculptors long since sated, fed and dead who pounded love with hammer, chisel, sweat from abstract concept into sanctified emotion pulsing from unbreathing stone; stories bled from humankind alone
Memory of a literal run through the Louvre. The second-ex-Mrs. Frye and I did the whole museum in a single day.