there is a sculpture
she claims unsketchable
of a woman in a mangled
frozen pose

the people flock to kiss
her pale lifeless feet
and gaze up in such proximity
to the angelic, unravelled woman
who becomes something more
in their gazes

but we sit from afar
and she marvelled at those wings
at the bends and swerves of that limestone
or marble
at the spine and the cracks

the prose of anonymity in beauty without a face,
a fetish,
just awe in raw skill