I find you amidst dust and alabaster
where you stand in smooth, marble pride.
Your skin is stiff and plastered
against all my caresses. You hide
the rhythm of the stone in your chest
but my straining ear heard its beat
while my own lilting heart knew unrest.
The divine Art of Venus I will not entreat,
for it was not my hands that carved
your body. Still, like Pygmalion playing
lover to his ivory girl, I am starved
for flesh to yield to my fingers, praying
that my own art, not divine or of stone,
can still make your heart revealed
to me. Let it be my own art alone
that will make such cold marble yield.