You please go
play baseball,
or fiddle little
violin outdoors.
I will stay here
with Sappho.
When you are
naked, hip thrust
up to meet your
lowered shoulder
blade, I'll hold you
thus in memory
and see the fey
sun alight your
contours, through
the skin as milky
ice, and will not
mar the thing
with what's said
but with another
looming corpus,
black, stony as
Rodin's Balzac
but silenter.
