Miniature Greek gods support the Roman hour,

having nothing else to do, or hold

some dead white grapes to girlish smiles

as the time runs around in a gold ring.

Orpheus plays a lyre. Euridice reclines,

as if the ticking rock was hell’s upholstery,

not chalk-faced onyx cast with runes.

Ah Orpheus, dead youth, this is a result

of marriage: when art and wealth conspire,

like Greek and Rome, to demonstrate

that clocks count, you singers lose

maturity, voice, and size, and have to freeze.