A sea of dirt, made chemical, of gray
Small waves below which not many fishes
Play, which not a dolphin breaks.
And where it comes to shore, frogmen of
Archaics tack a rope to her. Seventeen
Centuries she has passed in water twilight
Here. Saints-that was our fathers’
Name for them clapped when Greeks stole
Gold laces from her neck, then, I admit
Not dragging her sweet backside over her
Stony temenos or bruising her sweet fixed
Smile, carried her to the edge with care
And pitched her from this highest headland
At last, into a sea then blue.
Give her a black pedestal in the best
Museum room. Publish her postcard. Establish
White doves in a cote outside. A television
Eye will see if you begin to pencil
Your name with your girl’s name across her
Formerly pink thigh. But observe: most
Days this dead museum is shut. Her white
Doves have become grey. The Graces do
Not attend. She cannot dance with them.
And now she has not a thing to say.