Non-Erotic PoetryPygmalionHer body was like glass—hard,
impenetrable, but as clean and polished
as a statue in the Louvre.
When finally I saw her nude,
splayed upon my unmade bed,
I could only rouse myself enough to dust
her perfect thighs, as if some certain arts
were too sacred to be realized.
From then on, I only sculpted gods.
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