No tourists.
Water turning a mill wheel,
            serving nothing but artifice.

            I am a servant
to order and erotic love.
            Soon to be

You take a picture
            of me by a trellis,

            both of us failing
at the vernacular style.
            In the Temple of the God

            of Love, a naked
boy clutches an arrow.
            Once, in the manicured

            pasture, they reclined
holding shepherds’ crooks,
            noble women

            who pretended
to be someone else,
            their wigless hair

            tucked into
washed linen, their dresses
            fastened with ribbons,

            even now, the murdered queen
and her reassembled effects
            making room

            for art. We throw out
pieces of an unwanted

            your gloved hand
feeding the pond—
            the regal, monogamous

            swan, the hungry,
whiskered fish
            you drop the bread on.