He struggles to get the marble terrace clear

in his dreams. Broad steps going down.

A balustrade cut into the bright moonlight.

Love is pouring out and he is crying.

All the romantic equipment. But it is not that.

He looks down on the grey night in the black pool.

Sculpture glimmers in the weeds around it.

Why is the the small-headed Artemis so moving,

and the Virtues with their pretty breasts?

He is not foolish. He knows better.

The scuffing of his shoes on the stairs is loud.

What is he searching for among the banal statues?

When he touches the chapped plinths, his spirit twangs.

Derision protects him less and less. He goes

shamelessly among them, trembling, fashioning a place.