I might have wondered at statues

washed of gaudy color

and thought nothing lost but paint.

Despite their stories and their troubles,

they now look arch, submissive,

as alive as the death you breathed

into her and into me.

A color misnamed flesh,

cool and warm brown, beige,

these torsos miss

wars, ornament, fraternity,

lips chapped from kissing,

whole summers of raspberries,

and winters of willow bark tea.

How do I persist

praising perishing flowers

and likenesses of — what —

not knowing

something, time

and you?