mediterranean garden terraces
boil over with streams of ivy;
the natives say the hand that feeds
is bitten by lust and loss
midnight hangs like a curtain
licked by flames of torches bright;
a girl with exotic eyes turns
into a column of smoke and sky
behold the statue!
yours is a delicate thing;
mine, a ton of stone
below us, the sea taps out
a pattern
never to be repeated
***