LA MACCHINA UMANA

Her head
lay at her feet.

A butterfly perched
upon those chiseled lips.

She held a thin slice
of sunlight in her left hand.

The head?

She had got by
without it now

for the past
20 years.

A spider crawled over
her wide open eyes.

Her head looked up
at her imploringly.

But she paid it
no mind.

In time one finds
losing one's head

not the misfortune
it would appear to be.

Time that meaningless
piece of human machinery.

The statue had looked upon
this same scene

for a century or more
and was none the wiser.

Tourists a nuisance
like having lice.

The constant click of cameras
like an itch.

Flowers grew about
the fallen head

giving it a grace
it had not attained in life.

It was grateful
not to be human now.

The sunlight moving
from the left hand to the right.