Your statue of Aphrodite, lying in the grass of oblivion, it feeds on wild and lonely moonlight smell of an abandoned house, hidden in the leaves you waiting for, gazing into the path of long bushy thorn and stone.

When you move out of stone and a thorn in the side and shine my arrival in the golden foot, cast down your statue will cry fly to meet me.

I come long ago grown over the trail in the garden marble forgetting that you get back what…