Statue of Sappho, Lesbos
I’ve given some thought
to the way wind brushes sleep
from her eyes—
as when I dreamt my love
and brushed away the world. Yet tears
have long since collected
in sterile pools at the base of her
statue, and morning rains stepping out
into cool air, form
little imperfections dampening her marble
temples. Not one word
more will pass by the sliver of her eye,
and language,
once a fruit shaken down bough by bough,
lies untouched
in her basket. I return to common
melody—between seasons, the vibrant red
leaf tint, the veins’ papyrus
crinkle in a map
of touch, lilt of strange dispersal, oceanic
thought and waning moon
above these folds, stone-flowing chlamys
and cradled lyre. What can I say
to the inventiveness of wind and sea they
slowly urn?
