Palais des Arts

Love long dormant showing itself:

the large expected gods

caged really, the columns

sitting on the lawn, as though perfection

were not timeless but stationary—that

is the comedy, she thinks,

that they are paralyzed. Or like the matching swans,

insular, circling the pond: restraint so passionate

implies possession. They hardly speak.

On the other bank, a small boy throws bits of bread

into the water. The reflected monument

is stirred, briefly, stricken with light—

She can’t touch his arm in innocence again.

They have to give that up and begin

as male and female, thrust and ache.