Apopygmalion

And as you are warm flesh, so am I clay,

and with cold hands I ply my lust’s caress

upon your lovely shape, and hard I press

myself into each dark declivity.

I fill, surround, besmirch, enclose, possess,

I smear and spread and fill until no form

remains of you, submerged without a trace,

nor any substance left to make up me,

but only stifling silence, confined space.

There is no you or I as long as we

remain unhewn in this cold embrace.