You stand so stoically with that hard gaze of yours,
Where your pupils have been cut, the holes themselves gimlets.
Dear Galatea, with your long hair and ample shoulders,
Why have you stepped off your pedestal to dance with me?
Surely you have better things to do… Better men to argue with, work with,
over coffee, over the lanterns into the night…
Dear Galatea, you hold my hand and
yours is warm.
It is warmer than my own.
My hand is cold—
Will you teach me how to live?
Smash me into pieces,
Break me into milk-white shards,
Take me off this pedestal and kill me,
Leave nothing so that even my shadow is rent to shreds,
I am a phantasm compared to you.
Show me the sun.
Show me how to dance again.
I want to walk with you,
Amongst men who tower like statues,
Amongst men who move like carved marble who deal blows with stone, smooth fists,
With calves as hard as granite to match their wills.
From where did you get your stony composition?
Turn me to stone like you,
Hot and hard