in all honesty,
at this point,
i could ask myself what i am waiting
to acquire--
the beauty of an abstract
painting,
or a trifecta of die-cast
virtues--a suture
for some internal rip,
or something stranger: the discoloration of my eyes
as if they were a doll's eyes, my hand
the slender pale hand
of a waxen statue, the release
of an inner
inanimate
nature,
my nature...
as if, prayed for, i were a galatea, become
human
only to have time
stop about her
like a stiff garment.
i want to hold myself still as memory,
still as flesh can stay.